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POEMS, PLAYS and ESSAYS, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 



CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON HIS POETRY. 



By JOHN AIKIN, M.D. 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY, 

By HENRY T. TUCKERMAN, Esq. 







NEW YORK: 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO, 

No. 13 ASTOR PLACE. 






1 iP 



27 'OS 



CONTENTS. 



Introductory Essay by Henry T. Tuckerman ... vii 

Dr. Aikin's Memoirs of the Author 7 

Remarks on the Poetry of Dr. Goldsmith, by Dr. 

Aikin 38 

Verses on the death of Dr. Goldsmith . . . , . 55 

POEMS. . 

The Traveller ; or, a Prospect of Society .... 66 

The Deserted Village 84 

The Hermit, a Ballad 101 

The Haunch of Venison, to Lord Clare ..... 110 

Retaliation 115 

Postscript 122 

The Double Transformation, a Tale ...... 123 

The Gift : to Iris, in Bow-street, Covent Garden . 127 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog 128 

The Logicians Refuted : Imitation of Dean Swift . 129 

A new Simile : in the Manner of Swift ..... 131 



IV CONTENTS. 

Description of an Author's Bed-Chamber .... 133 
A Prologue by the Poet Laberius, whom Caesar 

forced upon the Stage 134 

An Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize 135 

On a beautiful Youth struck blind by Lightning . 136 

The Clown's Reply 137 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 137 

Epitaph on Edward Purdon 137 

Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 138 

Stanzas on Women 138 

Sonnet . ,, 139 

Songs 139 

Song, intended to have been sung in the Comedy 

of She Stoops to Conquer 140 

Prologue to Zobeide, a Tragedy 140 

Epilogue to the Comedy of the Sisters 142 

Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and Miss Catley . 144 

Epilogue intended for Mrs. Bulkley 147 

Epilogue spoken by Mr. Lee Lewes 149 

Threnodia Augustalis .151 

The Captivity : an Oratorio 162 

Lines attributed to Dr. Goldsmith , 176 



PLAYS. 

The Good-Natured Man, a Comedy 177 

She Stoops to Conquer, or the Mistakes of a Night . 269 



CONTENTS. 



ESSAYS. 



Introduction . . • 367 

Love and Friendship, or the Story of Alcander and 

Septimius, taken from a Byzantine Historian . . 371 

On Happiness of Temper 375 

Description of various Clubs 380 

On the Policy of concealing our Wants, or Poverty . 390 

On Generosity and Justice 397 

On the Education of Youth 401 

On the Versatility of Popular Favor 414 

Specimen of a Magazine in Miniature 418 

Rules for Behavior 421 

Rules for Raising the Devil 422 

Beau Tibbs : a Character 423 

Beau Tibbs — continued . 426 

On the Irresolution of Youth .. » 431 

On Mad Dogs . . 435 

On the Increased Love of Life with Age .... 440 
Ladies' Passion for levelling Distinction of Dress . 443 
Asem, an Eastern Tale ; or, the Wisdom of Provi- 
dence in the moral Government of the World . 449 
On the English Clergy, and Popular Preachers . . 458 
On the Advantages to be derived from sending a 

judicious Traveller into Asia 464 

Reverie at the Boar's-head Tavern, in Eastcheap . 469 

On Quack Doctors 485 

Adventures of a Strolling Player 489 



VI CONTENTS. 

Rules to be observed at a Russian Assembly . . . 500 

The Genius of Love, an Eastern Apologue . . . 502 

Distresses of an English disabled Soldier . . „ . 507 

On the Frailty of Man . . . 514 

On Friendship 516 

Folly of attempting to learn Wisdom in Retirement . 520 
Letter by a Common-Council-man at the time of the 

Coronation 524 

A second Letter describing the Coronation . . . 527 



INTRODUCTORY ESSAY.* 



BY HENRY T. TUCKERMAN. 



It is sometimes both pleasing and profitable to recur to 
those characters in literary history who are emphatically 
favorites, and to glance at the causes of their popularity. 
Such speculations frequently afford more important results 
than the mere gratification of curiosity. They often lead to 
a clearer perception of the true tests of genius, and indicate 
the principle and methods by which the common mind may 
be most successfully addressed. The advantage of such ret- 
rospective inquiries is still greater at a period like the pres- 
ent, when there is such an obvious tendency to innovate 
upon some of the best established theories of taste; when 
the passion for novelty seeks for such unlicensed indul- 
gence, and invention seems to exhaust itself rather upon 
forms than ideas. In literature, especially, we appear to be 
daily losing one of the most valuable elements — simplicity. 
The prevalent taste is no longer gratified with the natural. 
There is a growing appetite for what is startling and pecu- 
liar, seldom accompanied by any discriminating demand for 
the true and original ; and yet experience has fully proved 
that these last are the only permanent elements of litera- 
ture ; and no healthy mind, cognizant of its own history, 

* From " Thoughts on the Poets," by H. T. T. 



Vlll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

is unaware that the only intellectual aliment which never 
palls upon the taste is that which is least indebted to extra- 
neous accompaniments for its relish. 

It is ever refreshing to revert to first principles. The 
study of the old masters may sometimes make the modern 
artist despair of his own efforts ; but if he have the genius 
to discover and follow out the great principle upon which 
they wrought, he will not have contemplated their works in 
vain. He will have learned that devotion to Nature is the 
grand secret of progress in Art, and that the success of her 
votaries depends upon the singleness, constancy, and intelli- 
gence of their worship. If there is not enthusiasm enough 
to kindle this flame in its purity, nor energy sufficient to 
fulfil the sacrifice required at that high altar, let not the 
young aspirant enter the priesthood of art. When the 
immortal painter of the Transfiguration was asked to em- 
body his ideal of perfect female loveliness he replied — 
there would still be an infinite distance between his work 
and the existent original. In this profound and vivid per- 
ception of the beautiful in nature, we perceive the origin of 
those lovely creations which, for more than three hundred 
years, have delighted mankind. And it is equally true of 
the pen as the pencil that what is drawn from life and the 
heart alone bears the impress of immortality. Yet the 
practical faith of our day is diametrically opposed to this 
truth. The writers of our times are constantly making use 
of artificial enginery. They have, for the most part, aban- 
doned the integrity of purpose and earnest directness of 
earlier epochs. There is less faith, as we before said, in the 
natural; and when we turn from the midst of the forced 
and hot-bed products of the modern school, and ramble in 
the garden of old English literature, a cool and calm re- 



GOLDSMITH. IX 

freshnient invigorates the spirit, like the first breath of 
mountain air to the weary wayfarer. 

There are few writers of the period more generally be- 
loved than Dr. Goldsmith. Of his contemporaries Burke 
excelled him in splendor of diction, and Johnson in depth 
of thought. The former continues to enjoy a larger share 
of admiration, and the latter of respect, but the labors of 
their less pretending companion have secured him a far 
richer heritage of love. Of all posthumous tributes to 
genius this seems the most truly desirable. It recognizes 
the man as well as the author. It is called forth by more 
interesting characteristics than talent. It bespeaks a greater 
than ordinary association of the individual with his works, 
and, looking beyond the mere embodiment of his intellect, 
it gives assurance of an attractiveness in his character 
which has made itself felt even through the artificial me- 
dium of writing. The authors are comparatively few who 
have awakened this feeling of personal interest and affec- 
tion. It is common, indeed, for any writer of genius to in- 
spire emotions of gratitude in the breasts of those suscepti- 
ble to the charm, but the instances are rare in which this 
sentiment is vivified and elevated into positive affection. 
And few, I apprehend, among the wits and poets of old 
England, have more widely awakened it than Oliver Gold- 
smith. I have said this kind of literary fame was eminently 
desirable. There is, indeed, something inexpressibly touch- 
ing in the thought of one of the gifted of our race attaching 
to himself countless hearts by the force of a charm woven 
in by-gone years, when environed by neglect and discourage- 
ment. Though a late it is a beautiful recompense, tran- 
scending mere critical approbation, or even the reverence 
men offer to the monuments of mind. We can conceive of 



X INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

no motive to effort which can be presented to a man of true 
feeling like the hope of winning the love of his kind by the 
faithful exhibition of himself. It is a nobler purpose than 
that entertained by heartless ambition. The appeal is not 
merely to the judgment and imagination, it is to the univer- 
sal heart of mankind. Such fame is emphatically rich. It 
gains its possessor warm friends instead of mere admirers. 
To establish such an inheritance in the breast of humanity 
were indeed worthy of sacrifice and toil. It is an offering 
not only to intellectual but to moral graces, and its posses- 
sion argues for the sons of fame holier qualities than genius 
itself. It eloquently indicates that its subject is not only 
capable of interesting the general mind by the power of his 
creations, but of captivating the feelings by the earnest 
beauty of his nature. Of all oblations, therefore, we deem it 
the most valuable. It is this sentiment with which the lovers 
of painting regard the truest interpreters of the art. They 
wonder at Michael Angelo but love Raphael, and gaze upon 
the pensively beautiful delineation he has left us of himself 
with the regretful tenderness with which we look upon the 
portrait of a departed friend. The devotees of music, too, 
dwell with glad astonishment upon the celebrated operas of 
Rosini and some of the German composers, but the memor3 r 
of Bellini is absolutely loved. It is well remarked by one of 
Goldsmith's biographers, that the very fact of his being 
spoken of always with the epithet "poor " attached to his 
name is sufficient evidence of the kind of fame he enjoys. 
Whence, then, the peculiar attraction of his writings, and 
wherein consists the spell which has so long rendered his 
works the favorites of so many and such a variety of 
readers ? 

The primary and all pervading charm of Goldsmith is his 



GOLDSMITH. XI 

truth. It is interesting to trace this delightful characteristic, 
as it exhibits itself not less in his life than in his writings. 
We see it displayed in the remarkable frankness which dis- 
tinguished his intercourse with others, and in that winning 
simplicity which so frequently excited the contemptuous 
laugh of the worldly-wise, but failed not to draw towards him 
the more valuable sympathies of less perverted natures. All 
who have sketched his biography unite in declaring that he 
could not dissemble ; and we have a good illustration of his 
want of tact in concealing a defect in the story which is re- 
lated of him at the time of his unsuccessful attempt at medi- 
cal practice in Edinburgh — when, his only velvet coat being 
deformed by a huge patch on the right breast, he was accus- 
tomed, while in the drawing-room, to cover it in the most 
awkward manner with his hat. It was his natural truthful- 
ness which led him to so candid and habitual a confession of 
his faults. Johnson ridiculed him for so freely describing 
the state of his feelings, during the representation of his first 
play; and, throughout his life, the perfect honesty of his 
spirit made him the subject of innumerable practical jokes. 
Credulity is perhaps a weakness almost inseparable from 
eminently truthful characters. Yet, if such is the case, it 
does not in the least diminish our faith in the superiority and 
value of such characters. Waiving all moral considerations, 
we believe it can be demonstrated that truth is one of the 
most essential elements of real greatness and surest means 
of eminent success. Management, chicanery, and cunning 
may advance men in the career of the world ; it may forward 
the views of the politician and clear the way of the diploma- 
tist ; but when humanity is to be addressed in the universal 
language of genius ; when, through the medium of literature 
and art, man essays to reach the heart of his kind, the more 



Xll INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

sincere the appeal the surer its effect ; the more direct the 
call the deeper the response. In a word, the more largely 
truth enters into a work, the more certain the fame of its 
author. But a few months since I saw the Parisian populace 
crowding around the church where the remains of Talleyrand 
lay in state, but the fever of curiosity alone gleamed from 
their eyes, undimmed by tears. When Goldsmith died, Rey- 
nolds, then in the full tide of success, threw his pencil aside 
in sorrow, and Burke turned from the fast-brightening vision 
of renown to weep. 

Truth is an endearing quality. None are so beloved as the 
ingenuous. We feel in approaching them that the look of 
welcome is unaffected — that the friendly grasp is from the 
heart, and we regret their departure as an actual loss. And 
not less winningly shines this high and sacred principle 
through the labors of genius. It immortalizes history — it is 
the true origin of eloquence, and constitutes the living charm 
of poetry. When Goldsmith penned the lines — 

"To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art," 

he furnished the key to his peculiar genius, and recorded the 
secret which has embalmed his memory. It was the clear- 
ness of his own soul which reflected so truly the imagery of 
life. He did but transcribe the unadorned convictions that 
glowed in his mind, and faithfully traced the pictures which 
nature threw upon the mirror of his fancy. Hence the un- 
rivalled excellence of his descriptions. Rural life has never 
found a sweeter eulogist. To countless memories have his 
village landscapes risen pleasantly when the "murmur" rose 
at eventide. Where do we not meet with a kind-hearted phi- 
losopher delighting in some speculative hobby, equally dear 



GOLDSMITH. 5111 

as the good Vicar's theory of Monogamy ? The vigils of 
many an ardent student have been beguiled by his portraiture 
of a country clergyman — brightening the dim vista of futu- 
rity as his own ideal of destiny ; and who has not, at times, 
caught the very solace of retirement from his sweet apos- 
trophe ? 

The genius of Goldsmith was chiefly fertilized by observa- 
tion. He was not one of those who regard books as the only, 
or even the principal, sources of knowledge. He recognized 
and delighted to study the unwritten lore so richly spread 
over the volume of nature, and shadowed forth so variously 
from the scenes of every-day life and the teachings of individ- 
ual experience. There is a class of minds, second to none 
in native acuteness and reflective power, so constituted as to 
flourish almost exclusively by observation. Too impatient 
of restraint to endure the long vigils of the scholar, they are 
yet keenly alive to every idea and truth which is evolved- 
from life. Without a tithe of that spirit of application that 
binds the German student for years to his familiar tomes, 
they suffer not a single impression which events or character 
leave upon their memories to pass unappreciated. Unlearned, 
in a great measure, in the history of the past, the present is 
not allowed to pass without eliciting their intelligent com- 
ment. Unskilled in the technicalities of learning, they 
contrive to appropriate, with surprising facility, the wisdom 
born of the passing moment. No striking trait of character 
— no remarkable effect in nature — none of the phenomena 
of social existence, escape them. Like Hogarth, they are 
constantly enriching themselves with sketches from life ; and 
as he drew street-wonders upon his thumb-nail, they note and 
remember, and afterwards elaborate and digest whatever of 
interest experience affords. Goldsmith was a true specimen 



XIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

of this class. He vindicated, indeed, his claim to the title of 
scholar, by research and study; but the field most congenial 
to his taste was the broad universe of nature and man. It 
was his love of observation which gave zest to the roving 
life he began so early to indulge. His boyhood was passed 
in a constant succession of friendly visits. He was ever 
migrating from the house of one kinsman or friend to that 
of another ; and on these occasions, as well as when at home, 
he was silently but faithfully observing. The result is easily 
traced in his writings. Few authors, indeed, are so highly 
indebted to personal observation for their materials. It is 
well known that the original of the Vicar of Wakefield was 
his own father. Therein has he embodied in a charming 
manner his early recollections of his parent, and the picture 
is rendered still more complete in his papers on the "Man in 
Black." The inimitable description, too, of the "Village 
Schoolmaster " is drawn from the poet's early teacher ; and 
the veteran who " shouldered his crutch and told how fields 
were won " had often shared the hospitality of his father's 
roof. The leading incident in " She Stoops to Conquer" was 
his own adventure ; and there is little question that, in the 
quaint tastes of Mr. Burchell, he aimed to exhibit many of 
his peculiar traits. But it is not alone in the leading char- 
acters of his novel, plays and poems that we discover Gold- 
smith's observing power. It is equally discernible throughout 
his essays and desultory papers. Most of his illustrations are 
borrowed from personal experience, and his opinions are 
generally founded upon experiment. His talent for fresh 
and vivid delineation is ever most prominently displayed 
when he is describing what he actually witnessed, or drawing 
from the rich fund of his early impressions or subsequent 
adventures. No appeal to humor, curiosity or imagination 



GOLDSMITH. XV 

was unheeded ; and it is the blended pictures he contrived to 
combine from these cherished associations that impart so 
lively an interest to his pages. One moment we find him 
noting, with philosophic sympathy, the pastimes of a foreign 
peasantry ; and another studying the operations of a spider 
at his garret window, — now busy in nomenclating the pecu- 
liarities of the Dutch, and anon alluding to the exhibition of 
Cherokee Indians. The natural effect of this thirst for ex- 
perimental knowledge was to beget a love for foreign travel. 
Accordingly, we find that Goldsmith, after exhausting the 
narrow circle which his limited means could compass at 
home, projected a continental tour, and long cherished the 
hope of visiting the East. Indeed, we could scarcely have a 
stronger proof of his enthusiasm than the long journey he 
undertook and actually accomplished on foot. The remem- 
brance of his romantic wanderings over Holland, France, 
Germany, and Italy imparts a singular interest to his writ- 
ings. It was, indeed, worthy of a true poet that, enamored 
of nature and delighting in the observation of his species, he 
should thus manfully go forth, with no companion but his 
flute, and wander over those fair lands hallowed by past 
associations and existent beauty. A rich and happy era, 
despite its moments of discomfort, to such a spirit, was that 
year of solitary pilgrimage. Happy and proud must have 
been the imaginative pedestrian as he reposed his weary 
frame in the peasant's cottage " beside the murmuring Loire ;" 
and happier still when he stood amid the green valleys of 
Switzerland, and looked around upon her snow-capt hills, 
hailed the old towers of Verona, or entered the gate of Flor- 
ence — the long-anticipated goals to which his weary foot- 
steps had so patiently tended. If anything could enhance 
the pleasure of musing amid these scenes of poetic interest, 



XVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

it must have been the consciousness of having reached them 
by so gradual and self-denying a progress. There is, in 
truth, no more characteristic portion of Goldsmith's biog- 
raphy than that which records this remarkable tour; and 
there are few more striking instances of the available worth 
of talent. Unlike the bards of old, he won not his way to 
shelter and hospitality by appealing to national feeling ; for 
the lands through which he roamed were not his own, and 
the lay of the last minstrel had long since died away in 
oblivion. But he gained the ready kindness of the peasantry 
by playing the flute, as they danced in the intervals of toil; 
and won the favor of the learned by successful disputation 
at the convents and universities — a method of rewarding 
talent which was extensively practised in Europe at that 
period. Thus, solely befriended by his wits, the roving poet 
rambled over the continent, and, notwithstanding the vicissi- 
tudes incident to so precarious a mode of seeing the world, 
to a mind like his there was ample compensation in the 
superior opportunities for observation thus afforded. He 
mingled frankly with the people, and saw things as they 
were. The scenery which environed him flitted not before 
his senses like the shifting scenes of a panorama, but became 
familiar to his eye under the changing aspects of time and 
season. Manners and customs he quietly studied, with the 
advantage of sufficient opportunity to institute just compari- 
sons and draw fair inferences. In short, Goldsmith was no 
tyro in the philosophy of travel ; and, although the course 
he pursued was dictated by necessity, its superior results are 
abundantly evidenced throughout his works. We have, 
indeed, no formal narrative of his journeyings ; but, what is 
better, there is scarcely a page thrown off to supply the 
pressing wants of the moment which is not enriched by some 



GOLDSMITH. XV11 

pleasing reminiscence or sensible thought garnered from the 
recollection and scenes of that long pilgrimage. Nor did he 
fail to embody the prominent impressions of so interesting 
an epoch of his checkered life in a more enduring and beauti- 
ful form. The poem of " The Traveller," originally sketched 
in Switzerland, was subsequently revised and extended. It 
was the foundation of Goldsmith's poetical fame. The sub- 
ject evinces the taste of the author. The unpretending vein 
of enthusiasm which runs through it is only equalled by the 
force and simplicity of the style. The rapid sketches of the 
several countries it presents are vigorous and pleasing ; and 
the reflections interspersed abound with that truly humane 
spirit, and that deep sympathy with the good, the beautiful, 
and the true, which distinguishes the poet. This production 
may be regarded as the author's first deliberate attempt in 
the career of genius. It went through nine editions during 
his life, and its success contributed, in a great measure, to 
encourage and sustain him in future and less genial efforts. 

The faults which are said to have deformed the character 
of Goldsmith, belong essentially to the class of foibles rather 
than absolute and positive errors. Recent biographers agree 
in the opinion, that his alleged devotion to play has either 
been grossly exaggerated, or was but a temporary mania; 
and we should infer from his own allusion to the subject, 
that he had, with the flexibility of disposition that belonged 
to him, yielded only so far to its seductions as to learn from 
experience the supreme folly of the practice. It is at all 
events certain, that his means were too restricted, and his 
time, while in London, too much occupied to allow of his 
enacting the part of a regular and professed gamester ; and 
during the latter and most busy years of his life, we have the 
testimony of the members of the celebrated club to which he 



XV111 INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

was attached, to the temperance and industry of his habits. 
Another, and in the eyes of the world, perhaps, greater weak- 
ness recorded of him, was a mawkish vanity, sometimes ac- 
companied by jealousy of more successful competitors for 
the honors of literature. Some anecdotes, illustrative of this 
unamiable trait are preserved, which would amuse us, were 
they associated with less noble endowments or a more unin- 
teresting character. As it is, however, not a few of them 
challenge credulity, from their utter want of harmony with 
certain dispositions which he is universally alloAved to have 
possessed. But it is one of the greatest and most common 
errors in judging of character, to take an isolated and partial, 
instead of a broad and comprehensive view of the various 
qualities which go to form the man, and the peculiar circum- 
stances that have influenced their development. Upon a 
candid retrospect of Goldsmith's life, it appears to us that 
the display of vanity, which in the view of many are so de- 
meaning, may be easily and satisfactorily explained. Few 
men possess talent of any kind unconsciously. It seems de- 
signed by the Creator, that the very sense of capacity should 
urge genius to fulfil its mission, and support its early and 
lonely efforts by the earnest conviction of ultimate success. 
To beings thus endowed, the neglect and contumely of the 
world — the want of sympathy — the feeling of misapprecia- 
tion, is often a keen sorrow felt precisely in proportion to the 
susceptibility of the individual, and expressed according as 
he is ingenuous and frank. 

In the case of Goldsmith, his long and solitary struggle 
with poverty — his years of obscure toil — his ill-success in 
every scheme for support, coupled as they were with an in- 
tuitive and deep consciousness of mental power and poetic 
gifts, were calculated to render him painfully alive to the su- 



GOLDSMITH. XIX 

perior consideration bestowed upon less deserving, but more 
presumptuous men, and the unmerited and unjust disregard 
to his own claims. Weak it undoubtedly was, for him to 
give vent so childishly to such feelings, but this sprung from 
the spontaneous honesty of his nature. He felt as thousands 
have felt under similar circumstances, but, unlike the most 
of men, "he knew not the art of concealment." Indeed, this 
free spoken and candid disposition was inimical to his success 
in more than one respect. He was ever a careless talker, un- 
able to play the great man, and instinctively preferring the 
spontaneous to the formal, and " thinking aloud " to studied 
and circumspect speech. The " exquisite sensibility to con- 
tempt," too, which he confesses belonged to him, frequently 
induced an appearance of conceit, when no undue share 
existed. The truth is, the legitimate pride of talent, for 
want of free and natural scope, often exhibited itself in Gold- 
smith greatly to his disadvantage. The fault was rather in 
his destiny than himself. He ran away from college with 
the design of embarking for America, because he was re- 
proved by an unfeeling tutor before a convivial party of his 
friends ; and descended to a personal rencontre with a printer, 
who impudently delivered Dodsley's refusal that he should 
undertake an improved edition of Pope. He concealed his 
name when necessity obliged him to apply for the office of 
Usher ; and received visits and letters at a fashionable coffee- 
house, rather than expose the poorness of his lodgings. He 
joined the crowd to hear his own ballads sung when a stu- 
dent; and openly expressed his wonder at the stupidity of 
people, in preferring the tricks of a mountebank to the so- 
ciety of a man like himself. While we smile at, we cannot 
wholly deride such foibles, and are constrained to say of 
Goldsmith as he said of the Village Pastor — 

" And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side." 



XX INTRODUCTORY ESS AT. 

It is not easy to say whether the improvidence of our poet 
arose more from that recklessness of the future, character- 
istic of the Irish temperament, or the singular confidence in 
destiny which is so common a trait in men of ideal tenden- 
cies. It would naturally be supposed, that the stern lesson 
of severe experience would have eventually corrected this 
want of foresight It was but the thoughtlessness of youth 
which lured him to forget amid the convivialities of a party, 
the vessel on board which he had taken passage and em- 
barked his effects, on his first experiment in travelling ; but 
later in life we find him wandering out on the first evening 
of his arrival in Edinburgh, without noting the street or 
number of his lodging ; inviting a party of strangers in a 
public garden to take tea with him, without a sixpence in 
his pocket ; and obstinately persisting, during his last illness, 
in taking a favorite medicine, notwithstanding it aggravated 
his disease. A life of greater vicissitude it would be difficult 
to find in the annals of literature. Butler and Otway were, 
indeed, victims of indigence, and often, perhaps, found them- 
selves, like our bard, "in a garret writing for bread, and ex- 
pecting every moment to be dunned for a milk-score," but 
the biography of Goldsmith displays a greater variety of 
shifts resorted to for subsistence. He was successively an 
itinerant musician, a half-starved usher, a chemist's appren- 
tice, private tutor, law-student, practising physician, eager 
disputant, hack-writer, and even, for a week or two, one of a 
company of strolling players. In the History of George 
Primrose, he is supposed to have described much of his per- 
sonal experience prior to the period when he became a pro- 
fessed litterateur. We cannot but respect the independent 
spirit he maintained through all these struggles with ad- 
verse fortune. Notwithstanding his poverty, the attempt to 



GOLDSMITH. XXI 

chain his talents to the service of a political faction by mer- 
cenary motives was indignantly spurned, and when his good 
genius proved triumphant, he preferred to inscribe its first 
acknowledged offspring to his brother, than, according to the 
servile habits of the day, dedicate it to any aristocratic pa- 
tron, " that thrift might follow fawning." With all his in- 
capacity for assuming dignity, Goldsmith never seems to have 
forgotten the self-respect becoming one of nature's nobility. 

The high degree of excellence attained by Goldsmith in 
such various and distinct species of literary effort, is worthy 
of remark. As an essayist he has contributed some of the 
most pure and graceful specimens of English prose discover- 
able in the whole range of literature. His best comedy con- 
tinues to maintain much of its original popularity, notwith- 
standing the revolutions which public taste has undergone 
since it was first introduced ; and " The Hermit " is still an 
acknowledged model in ballad-writing. If from his more 
finished works we turn to those which were thrown off under 
the pressing exigencies of his life, it is astonishing what a 
contrast of subjects employed his pen. During his college 
days, he was constantly writing ballads on popular events, 
which he disposed of at five shillings each, and subsequently, 
after his literary career had fairly commenced, we find him 
sedulously occupied in preparing prefaces, historical compila- 
tions, translations, and reviews for the booksellers ; one day 
throwing off a pamphlet on the Cock-lane Ghost, and the 
next inditing Biographical Sketches of Beau Nash ; at one 
moment, busy upon a festive song, and at another, deep in 
composing the words of an Oratorio. It is curious, with the 
intense sentiment and finished pictures of fashionable life 
with which the fictions of our day abound, fresh in the mem- 
ory, to open the Vicar of Wakefield. We seem to be read- 



XXU INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

ing the memoirs of an earlier era instead of a different sphere 
of life. There are no wild and improbable incidents, no 
startling views, and with the exception of BurchelPs incog- 
nito, no attempt to excite interest through the attraction of 
mystery. And yet, few novels have enjoyed such extensive 
and permanent favor. It is yet the standard work for intro- 
ducing students on the continent to a knowledge of our 
language, and though popular taste at present demands quite 
a different style of entertainment, yet Goldsmith's novel is 
often reverted to with delight, from the vivid contrast it pre- 
sents to the reigning school ; while the attractive picture it 
affords of rural life and humble virtue, will ever render it 
intrinsically dear and valuable. 

But the "Deserted Village" is, of all Goldsmith's produc- 
tions, unquestionably the favorite. It carries back the mind 
to the early seasons of life, and re-asserts the power of un- 
sophisticated tastes. Hence, while other poems grow stale, 
this preserves its charm. Dear to the heart and sacred to 
the imagination, are those sweet delineations of unperverted 
existence. There is true pathos in that tender lament over 
the superceded sports and ruined haunts of rustic enjoyment 
which never fails to find a response in every feeling breast. 
It is an elaborate and touching epitaph, written in the ceme- 
tery of the world, over what is dear to all humanity. There 
is a truth in the eloquent defence of agricultural pursuits and 
natural pastimes, that steals like a well-remembered strain 
over the heart immersed in the toil and crowds of cities. 
There is an unborn beauty in the similes of the bird and her 
"unfledged offspring," the hare that "pants to the place from 
whence at first he flew," and the "tall cliff that lifts its 
awful form," which despite their familiarity, retain their 
power to delight. And no clear and susceptible mind can 



GOLDSMITH. XX111 

ever lose its interest in the unforced, unexaggerated, and 
heart-stirring numbers, which animate with pleasure the 
pulses of youth, gratify the mature taste of manhood, and 
fall with soothing sweetness upon the ear of age. 

"We are not surprised at the exclamation of a young lady 
who had been accustomed to say that our poet was the home- 
liest of men, after reading the "Deserted Village " — "I shall 
never more think Dr. Goldsmith ugly!" This poem passed 
through five editions in as many months, and from its domes- 
tic character became immediately popular throughout Eng- 
land. Its melodious versification is doubtless, in a measure, 
to be ascribed to its author's musical taste, and the fascinat- 
ing ease of its flow is the result of long study and careful revis- 
ion. Nothing is more deceitful than the apparent facility 
observable in poetry. No poet exhibits more of this charac- 
teristic than Ariosto, and yet his manuscripts are filled with 
erasures and repetitions. Few things appear more negligent- 
ly graceful than the well-arranged drapery of a statue, yet 
how many experiments must the artist try before the desired 
effect is produced. So thoroughly did the author revise the 
" Deserted Village," that not a single original line remained. 
The clearness and warmth of his style is, to my mind, as 
indicative of Goldsmith's truth, as the candor of his charac- 
ter or the sincerity of his sentiments. It has been said of 
Pitt's elocution, that it had the effect of impressing one with 
the idea that the man was greater than the orator. A simi- 
lar influence it seems to me is produced by the harmonious 
versification and elegant diction of Goldsmith. 

It is not, indeed, by an analysis, however critical, of the 
intellectual distinctions of any author, that we can arrive at 
a complete view of his genius. It is to the feelings that we 
must look for that earnestness which gives vigor to mental 



XXIV INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

efforts, and imparts to them their peculiar tone and coloring. 
And it will generally be found that what is really and per- 
manently attractive in the works of genius, independent of 
mere diction, is to be traced rather to the heart than to the 
head. "We may admire the original conception, the lofty im- 
agery or winning style of a popular author, but what touches 
us most deeply is the sentiment of which these are the vehi- 
cles. The fertile invention of Petrarch, in displaying under 
such a variety of disguises the same favorite subject, is not 
so moving as the unalterable devotion which inspires his 
fancy and quickens his muse. The popularity of Mrs. He- 
mans is more owing to the delicate and deep enthusiasm than 
to the elegance of her poetry, and Charles Lamb is not less 
attractive for his kindly affections than for his quaint humor. 
Not a little of the peculiar charm of Goldsmith is attributa- 
ble to the excellence of his heart. Mere talent would scarcely 
have sufficed to interpret and display so enchantingly the hum- 
ble characters and scenes to which his most brilliant efforts 
were devoted. It was his sincere and ready sympathy with 
man, his sensibility to suffering in every form, his strong 
social sentiment and his amiable interest in all around, which 
brightened to his mind's eye what to the less susceptible is 
unheeded and obscure. Naturally endowed with free and 
keen sensibilities, his own experience of privation prevented 
them from indurating through age or prosperity. He cher- 
ished throughout his life an earnest faith in the better feel- 
ings of our nature. He realized the universal beauty and 
power of Love, and neither the solitary pursuits of lit- 
erature, the elation of success, nor the blandishments of 
pleasure or society, ever banished from his bosom the gener- 
ous and kindly sentiments Mdiich adorned his character. He 
was not the mere creature of attainment, the reserved scholar 



GOLDSMITH. XXV 

or abstracted dreamer. Pride of intellect usurped not his 
heart. Pedantry congealed not the fountains of feeling. He 
rejoiced in the exercise of all those tender and noble senti- 
ments which are so much more honorable to man than the 
highest triumphs of mind. And it is these which make us 
love the man not less than admire the author. Goldsmith's 
early sympathy with the sufferings of the peasantry is elo- 
quently expressed in both his poems, and frequently in his 
prose writings. How expressive that lament for the destruc- 
tion of the " Ale-House," — that it would 

*' No more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart." 

There is more true benevolence in the feeling which 
prompted such a thought, than in all the cold and calcula- 
ting philosophy with which so many expect to elevate the 
lower classes in these days of ultra-reform. When shall we 
learn that we must sympathize with those we would im- 
prove ? At college, we are told, one bitter night Goldsmith 
encountered a poor woman and her infant shivering at the 
gate, and having no money to give them, bringing out all 
his bedclothes, and to keep himself from freezing, cut open 
his bed and slept within it. When hard at work earning a 
scanty pittance in his garret, he spent every spare penny 
in cakes for the children of his poorer neighbors, and when 
he could do nothing else, taught them dancing by way of 
cheering their poverty. Notwithstanding his avowed antip- 
athy to Baretti, he visited and relieved him in prison; and 
when returning home with the 100/. received from his book- 
seller for the " Deserted Village," upon being told by an ac- 
quaintance he fell in with that it was a great price for so 
little a thing, replied, "Perhaps it is more than he can af- 



XXVI INTRODUCTORY ESSAY. 

ford/' and returning, offered to refund a part. To his poor 
countrymen he was a constant benefactor, and while he had 
a shilling was ready to share it with them, so that they fa- 
miliarly styled him " our doctor." In Leyden, when on the 
point of commencing his tour, he stripped himself of all his 
funds to send a collection of flower roots to an uncle who 
was devoted to botany ; and on the first occasion that pat- 
ronage was offered him, declined aid for himself, to bespeak 
a vacant living for his brother. In truth his life abounds in 
anecdotes of a like nature. We read one day of his pawn- 
ing his watch for Pilkington, another of his bringing home 
a poor foreigner from Temple gardens to be his amanuensis, 
and again of his leaving the card-table to relieve a poor 
woman, whose tones as she chanted some ditty in passing, 
came to him above the hum of gaiety and indicated to his ear 
distress. Though the frequent and undeserved subject of 
literary abuse, he was never known to write severely against 
anyone. 

His talents were sacredly devoted to the cause of virtue 
and humanity. No malignant satire ever came from his 
pen. He loved to dwell upon the beautiful vindications in 
"Nature, of the paternity of God, and expatiate upon the 
noblest and most universal attributes of men. "If I were to 
love you by rule," he writes to his brother, " I dare say I 
never could do it sincerely." There was in his nature an 
instinctive aversion to the frigid ceremonial and meaningless 
professions which so coldly imitate the language of feeling. 
Goldsmith saw enough of the world, to disrobe his mind of 
that scepticism born of custom which " makes dotards of us 
all." He did not wander among foreign nations, sit at the 
cottage fireside, nor mix in the thoroughfare and gay saloon, 
in vain. Travel liberalized his views and demolished the 



GOLDSMITH. XXVU 

barriers of local prejudice. He looked around upon his 
kind with the charitable judgment and interest born of an 
observing mind and a kindly heart — with an infinite love, 
an infinite pity. He delighted in the delineation of humble 
life, because he knew it to be the most unperverted. Simple 
pleasures warmed his fancy because he had learned their 
preeminent truth. Childhood with its innocent playfulness, 
intellectual character with its tutored wisdom, and the uncul- 
tivated but "bold peasantry," interested him alike. He could 
enjoy an hour's friendly chat with his fellow-lodger — the 
watchmaker in Green Arbor Court — not less than a literary 
discussion with Dr. Johnson. "I must own," he writes, "I 
should prefer the title of the ancient philosopher, namely, a 
Citizen of the World — to that of an Englishman, a French- 
man, an European, or that of any appellation whatever." 
And this title he has nobly earned by the wide scope of his 
sympathies and the beautiful pictures of life and nature 
universally recognized and universally loved, which have 
spread his name over the world. Pilgrims to the supposed 
scene of the Deserted Village have long since carried away 
every vestige of the hawthorn at Lissoy, but the laurels of 
Goldsmith will never be garnered by the hand of time, or 
blighted by the frost of neglect, as long as there are minds 
to appreciate, or hearts to reverence the household lore of 
English Literature. 



MEMOIES 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH, M.B. 



BY DR. AIKIN. 



It cannot be said of this ornament of British literature as 
has been observed of most authors, that the memoirs of his 
life comprise little more than a history of his writings. 
Goldsmith's life was full of adventure ; and a due considera- 
tion of his conduct, from the outset to his death, will furnish 
many useful lessons to those who live after him. 

Our author, the third son of Mr. Charles Goldsmith, was 
born at Elphin, in the county of Roscommon, Ireland, on the 
29th of November, 1728. His father, who had been edu- 
cated at Dublin College, was a clergyman of the established 
church, and had married Anne, daughter of the Rev. Oliver 
Jones, master of the diocesan school of Elphin. Her moth- 
er's brother, the Rev. Mr. Green, then rector of Kilkenny 
West, lent the } r oung couple the house in which our author 
was born ; and at his death, Mr. Green was succeeded in his 
benefice by his clerical prote'ge'e. 

Mr. Charles Goldsmith had five sons and two daughters. 

Henry, the eldest son (to whom the poem of " The Travel- 
ler" is dedicated), distinguished himself greatly both at 



8 aikin's memoirs of 

school and at college; but his marriage at nineteen years 
of age appears to have been a bar to his preferment in the 
church, and we believe that he never ascended above a 
curacy. 

The liberal education which the father bestowed upon 
Henry had deducted so much from a narrow income that, 
when Oliver was born, after an interval of seven years from 
the birth of the former child, no prospect in life appeared 
for him but a mechanical or mercantile occupation. 

The rudiments of instruction he acquired from a school- 
master in the village, who had served in Queen Anne's wars 
as a qiiarter-master in that detachment of the army which 
was sent to Spain. Being of a communicative turn, and 
finding a ready hearer in young Oliver, this man used fre- 
quently to entertain him with what he called his adventures ; 
nor is it without probability supposed that these laid the 
foundation of that wandering disposition which became 
afterwards so conspicuous in his pupil. 

At a very early age Oliver began to exhibit indications of 
genius; for, when only seven or eight years old, he would 
often amuse his father and mother with poetical attempts, 
which attracted much notice from them and their friends ; 
but his infant mind does not appear to have been much 
elated by their approbation; for, after his verses had been 
admired, they were, without regret, committed by him to 
the flames. 

He was now taken from the tuition of the quondam soldier 
to be put under that of the Eev. Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of 
Elphin ; and was at the same time received into the house of 
his father's brother, John Goldsmith, Esq., of Ballyoughter. 
near that town. 

Our author's eldest sister, Catherine (afterwards married 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. y 

to Daniel Hodson, Esq., of Lishoy, near Ballymahon), re- 
lates that one evening, when Oliver was about nine years of 
age, a company of young people of both sexes being assem- 
bled at his uncle's, the boy was required to dance a hornpipe, 
a youth undertaking to play to him on the fiddle. Being but 
lately out of the small-pox, which had much disfigured his 
countenance, and his bodily proportions being short and 
thick, the young musician thought to show his wit by com- 
paring our hero to JEsop dancing; and having harped a 
little too long, as the caperer thought, on this bright idea, 
the latter stopped, and said : — 

Our herald hath proclaimed this saying, 
' See ^sop dancing,' — and his Monkey playing. 

This instance of early wit, we are told, decided his for- 
tune : for, from that time it was determined to send him to 
the university; and some of his relations, who were in the 
church, offered to contribute towards the expense, particular- 
ly the Eev. Thos. Cantarine, rector of Kilmore, near Carrick- 
upon-Shannon, who had married an aunt of Oliver's. The 
Rev. Mr. Green also, whom we have before mentioned, liber- 
ally assisted in this friendly design. 

To further the purpose intended, he was now removed to 
Athlone, where he continued about two years under the Eev. 
Mr. Campbell, who being then obliged by ill-health to resign 
the charge, Oliver was sent to the school of the Eev, Patrick 
Hughes, at Edgeworthstown, in the county of Longford* 

* We are told that, in his last journey to this school, he had an adven- 
ture which is thought to have suggested the plot of his comedy of ' She 
StDopsto Conquer.' — Some friend had given him a guinea, and in his 
way to Edgeworthstown, which was about twenty miles from his father's 



10 aikin's memoirs of 

Under this gentleman he was prepared for the university, 
and on the 11th of June, 1744, was admitted a Sizer of Trin- 
ity College, Dublin,* under the tuition of the Eev. Mr. 
Wilder, one of the Fellows, who was a man of harsh temper 
and violent passions ; and Oliver being of a thoughtless and 
gay turn, it cannot be surprising that they should soon be 
dissatisfied with each other. 

Oliver, it seems, had one day imprudently invited a party 
of both sexes to a supper and ball in his rooms, which com- 
ing to the ears of his tutor, the latter entered the place in the 
midst of their jollity, abused the whole company, and in- 
flicted manual correction on Goldsmith in their presence. 

This mortification had such an effect on the mind of Oliver 
that he resolved to seek his fortune in some place where he 
should be unknown ; accordingly he sold his books and clothes, 
and quitted the university, but loitered about the streets, 

house, he had amused himself the whole day with viewing the gentle- 
men's seats on the road, and at nightfall found himself in the small town 
of Ardagh. Here he inquired for the hest house in the place, meaning 
the hest inn ; but his informant, taking the question in its literal sense, 
showed him to the house of a private gentleman, where, calling for 
somebody to take his horse to the stable, our hero alighted, and was 
shown into the parlor, being supposed to have come on a visit to the 
master, whom he found sitting by the fire. This gentleman soon discov- 
ered Oliver's mistake, but being a man of humor, and learning from him 
the name of his father, (whom he knew,) he favored the deception. 
Oliver ordered a good supper, and invited his landlord and landlady, 
with their daughters, to partake of it; he treated them with a bottle or 
two of wine, and at going to bed, ordered a hot cake to be prepared for 
his breakfast; nor was it till he was about to depart, and called for his 
bill, that he discovered his mistake. 

* The celebrated Edmund Burke was at the same time a collegian 
here. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 11 

considering of a destination, till his money was exhausted. 
With a solitary shilling in his pocket he at last left Dublin ; 
by abstinence he made this sum last him three days and then 
was obliged to part, by degrees, with the clothes off his back, 
in short, to snch an extremity was he reduced, as to find a 
handful of gray-peas, given him by a girl at a wake, the 
most comfortable repast that he had ever made. 

After numberless adventures in this vagrant state, he 
found his way home, and was replaced under his morose and 
merciless tutor, by whom he was again exposed to so many 
mortifications, as induced an habitual despondence of mind, 
and a total carelessness about his studies ; the consequence 
of which was that he neither obtained a scholarship nor 
became a candidate for the premiums. On the 25th of 
May, 1747, he received a public admonition for having as- 
sisted other collegians in a riot occasioned by a scholar hav- 
ing been arrested, quod seditioni favisset, et tumuUuantibus 
opem tulisset : in this case, however, he appears to have fared 
better than some of his companions, who were expelled the 
university. On the loth of June following he was elected 
one of the exhibitioners on the foundation of Erasmus 
Smyth : but was not admitted to the degree of Bachelor of 
Arts till February, 1749, which was two years after the 
usual period. 

Oliver's father being now dead, his uncle Contarine under- 
took to supply his place, and wished him to prepare for holy 
orders. This proposal not meeting with the young man's in 
clination, Mr. Contarine next resolved on sending him to 
London, that he might study law in the temple. Whilst at 
Dublin, however, on his way to England, he fell in with a 
sharper, who cheated him at play of 501., which had been 
provided for his carriage, etc. He returned, and received his 



12 aikin's memoies of 

uncle's forgiveness ; it was now finally settled that he should 
make physic his profession ; and he departed for Edinburgh, 
where he settled about the latter part of the year 1752- 
Here he attended the lectures of Dr. Monroe and the other 
medical professors ; but his studies were by no means regu- 
lar ; and an indulgence in dissipated company, with a ready 
hand to administer to the necessities of whoever ashed him, 
kept him always poor. 

Having, however, gone through the usual courses of phys- 
ic and anatomy in the Scottish university, Goldsmith was 
about to remove to Leyden to complete his studies; and his 
departure was hastened by a debt to Mr. Barclay, a tailor in 
Edinburgh, which he had imprudently made his own by be- 
coming security for a fellow student who, either from want 
of principle or of means, had failed to pay it ; for this debt 
he was arrested ; but was released by the kindness of Dr. 
Sleigh and Mr. Laughlin Maclaine, whose friendship he had 
acquired at the college. 

He now embarked for Bourdeaux, on board a Scotch ves. 
sel called the St. Andrew's, Capt. John Wall master. The 
ship made a tolerable appearance ; and as another induce- 
ment to our hero, he was informed that sis agreeable passen- 
gers were to be his company. They had been but two days 
at sea, however, when a storm drove them into Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne, and the passengers went ashore to refresh after 
the fatigue of their voyage. ' Seven men and I,' (says Gold- 
smith) were on shore the following evening ; but as we were 
all very merry, the room door burst open, and there entered 
a sergeant and twelve grenadiers, with their bayonets 
screwed, who put us all under the King's arrest. It seems 
my company were Scotchmen in the French service, and had 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 13 

been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for Louis XV. I endeav- 
ored all I could to prove my innocence ; however, I remained 
in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off 
even then. But hear how Providence interposed in my fav- 
or : the ship, which had set sail for Bourdeaux before I got 
from prison, was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and 
every one of the crew drowned.' — Fortunately, there was a 
ship now ready at Newcastle, for Holland, on board of which 
he embarked, and in nine days reached Rotterdam ; whence 
he travelled by land to Leyden. 

Here he resided about a year, studying anatomy under 
Albinus, and chemistry under Gambius ; but here, as former- 
ly, his little property was destroyed by play and dissipation ; 
and he is actually believed to have set out on his travels with 
only one clean shirt, and not a guilder in his purse, trusting 
Avholly to Providence for a subsistence. 

It is generally understood that, in the history of his Philo- 
sophic Vagabond (Vicar of Wakefield, chap, xx.), he has re- 
lated many of his own adventures ; and that when on his pe- 
destrian tour through Flanders and France, as he had some 
knowledge of music, he turned what had formerly been his 
amusement into a present means of subsistence. 'I passed, 
(says he) among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and 
among such of the French as were poor enough to be very 
merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their 
wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards 
nightfall, I played on my German flute one of my most merry 
tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsist- 
ence for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play for 
people of fashion ; but they always thought my performance 
odious, and never rewarded me even with a trifle. This was 



14 aikin's memoirs of 

to me the more extraordinary ; as whenever I used in better 
days to play for company, when playing was my amusement, 
my music never failed to throw them into raptures, and the 
ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means, it was 
received with contempt ; a proof how ready the world is to 
underrate those talents by which a man is supported!' At 
the different monasteries in his lour, especially those of his 
own nation, his learning generally procured him temporary 
entertainment ; and thus he made his way to Switzerland, 
in which country he first cultivated his poetical talents with 
any particular effect ; for here we find he wrote about two 
hundred lines of his ' Traveller.' 

The story which has commonly been told, of his having 
acted as travelling tutor to a young miser, is now thought to 
have been too hastily adopted from the aforesaid history of a 
Philosophic Vagabond, and never to have been the real situ- 
ation of the author of that historv. From Switzerland, Gold- 
smith proceeded to Padua, where he stayed sis months, aud 
is by some supposed to have taken there his degree of Bache- 
lor of Physic ; though others are of opinion, that if ever he 
really took any medical degree abroad, it was at Louvain.* 

After visiting all the northern part of Italy, he travelled, 
still on foot, through France; and, embarking at Calais, 
landed at Dover in the summer of 1756, unknown, as he sup- 
posed, to a single individual, and with not a guinea in his 
pocket. 

His first endeavors were to procure employment as an ush- 
er in some school ; but the want of a recommendation as' to 
character and ability rendered his efforts for some time fruit- 

* In 1769, it is certain, he was admitted M. B. at Oxford, which 
nnivemty he visited, in February, in company with Dr. Johnson. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 15 

less ; and how he subsisted is not easy to guess. At length, 
however, it appears he procured an usher's place; but in 
what part the school was situated, or how long he continued 
in it, we do not learn ; though we may forni some idea of 
the uncongeniality of the place to his mind, from the follow 
ing passage in the Philosophic Vagabond : ' I have been an 
usher at a boarding-school ; and may I die but I would rath- 
er be an under-tumkey in Newgate. I was up early and 
late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated for my ugly face 
by my mistress, worried by the boys within, and never per- 
mitted to stir out to meet civility abroad.' 

When in a fit of disgust he had quitted this academy, his 
pecuniary necessities soon became pressing ; to relieve which 
he applied to several apothecaries and chemists for employ- 
ment as a journeyman; but here his threadbare appearance, 
awkward manners, and the want of a recommendation, ope- 
rated sorely to his prejudice ;* till at last a chemist near Fish- 
street-hill, probably moved by compassion, gave him employ- 
ment in his laboratory, where he continued till he learned 
that his old friend Dr. Sleigh, of Edinburgh, was in town : on 
him (who had, as we have seen, formerly relieved him from 
embarrassment,) Goldsmith waited, was kindly received, and 
invited to share his purse during his continuance in London. 

This timely assistance enabled our author to commence 
medical practice at Bankside, in Southwark, whence he after- 

*In a letter, dated Dec. 1757, he writes thus: — 'At London, you 
may easily imagine what difficulties I had to encounter ; without 
friends, recommendations, money or impudence; and that in a 
country where being horn an Irishman was sufficient to keep me 
unemployed. Many in such circumstances would have had re- 
course to the friar's cord or the suicide's halter. But with all my 
follies I had principle to resist the one, and resolution to combat 
the other.' 



<6 ai'kin's memoirs op 

.vard removed to the neighborhood of the Temple ; his suc- 
cess as a physician is not known, but his income was very 
(Sinall ; for, as he used to say, he got very few fees, though 
he had abundance of patients. Some addition, however, he 
now began to derive from the efforts of his pen ; and it ap- 
pears that he was for awhile with the celebrated Samuel 
Richardson as corrector of the press. 

About this time he renewed his acquaintance with one of 
the young physicians whom he had known at Edinburgh. 
This was a son of the Rev. Dr. John Milner, a dissenting 
minister, who kept a classical school of eminence at Peck- 
ham, in Surrey. Mr. Milner, observing Goldsmith's uncer- 
tain mode of living, invited him to take the charge of his 
father's school, the doctor being then confined by illness; to 
this he consented ; and Dr. Milner, in turn, promised to ex- 
ert his interest with the India Directors to procure for him 
some medical establishment in the Company's service. This 
promise he faithfully performed, aud Goldsmith was actually 
appointed physician to one of the factories in India in 1758. 
It appears, however, that our author never availed himself of 
this post,* but continued in Dr. Milner's academy ; and in 
this very year sold to Mr. Edward Dilly, for twenty guineas, 
' The memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of 
France for his Religion. Written by himself. Translated 
from the Original, just published at the Hague, by James 
Wellington, 2 vols., 12mo. 

Towards the latter end of 1758, Goldsmith happened to 

* Though it is certain that in contemplation of going to India, he 
circulated Proposals to print by Subscription ' An essay on the Pres- 
ent State of taste and Literature in Europe,' as a means of defray- 
ing the expenses of his fitting out for the voyage. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 17 

dine at Dr. Milner's table with Mr. Ralph Griffiths, the pro- 
prietor of The Monthly Review, who invited him to write ar- 
ticles of criticism for that respectable publication, on the terms 
of a liberal salary, besides board and lodging. By a written 
agreement this engagement was to last for a year ; but at the 
end of seven or eight months it was dissolved by mutual con- 
sent, and Goldsmith took a miserable apartment in Green- Ar- 
bor-court, Little Old Bailey.* In this wretched hovel our 
author completed his ' Inquiry into the Present State of Po- 
lite Literature in Europe,' which was published in 1759, by 
Dodsley, and was well received. In October of the same year 
he began ' The Bee,' a weekly publication, which terminated 
at the eighth number. About this time, also, he contributed 
some articles to The Critical Review, one of which (we be- 
lieve a review of ' Ovid's Epistles translated into English 
verse by a Mr. Barrett, Master of the Grammar School at 
Ashford, in Kent) introduced him to the acquaintance of Dr. 
Smollett, who was then editor of The British Magazine; 
and for that work Goldsmith wrote most of those ' Essays,' 
which were afterwards collected and published in a separate 
volume. By Dr. Smollett, too, he was recommended to some 
respectable booksellers, particularly to Mr. John Newbery, 
who well deserved the euiogium bestowed by Warburton on 
the trade-in general, as one of ' the best judges and most lib- 
eral rewarders of literary merit.' By Mr. Newbery, Gold- 
smith was engaged at a salary of 100Z. a-year, to write for 
The Public Ledger a series of periodical papers. These he 
called ; Chinese Letters ;' and they were afterwards collect- 
ed in two volumes, under the title of ' The Citizen of the 

* An engraving of the house, illustrated by a description, was giv- 
en in ' The European Magazine,' vol. xliii, pp. 7, 8. 

2* 



18 aikin's memoirs of 

World.' It was soon after this tliat lie commenced his ac- 
quaintance with Dr. Johnson. 

The important engagement with Newbery for a hundred 
pounds a year, encouraged Goldsmith to descend Break-neck- 
steps,* and to hire a decent apartment in Wine-Office-court, 
Fleet-street. Here be dropped the humble Mister, and dub- 
bed himself Doctor Goldsmith. Here also he put the finish- 
ing hand to his excellent novel called ' The Vicar of Wake 
field,' but was, when he had done, extremely embarrassed in 
his circumstances, dunned by his landlady for arrears of rent, 
and not daring to stir abroad for fear of arrest : in fact, she 
herself at length had him arrested ; he then summoned reso- 
lution to send a message to Dr. Johnson ; stating that he was 
in great distress, and begging that he would come to him as 
soon as possible. Johnson sent him a guinea, and promised to 
follow almost immediately. When he arrived, he found Gold- 
smith in a violent passion with the woman of the house, but 
consoling himself as well as he could with a bottle of Madeira, 
which he had already purchased with part of the guinea. 
Johnson, corking the bottle, desired Goldsmith would be calm, 
and consider in what way he could extricate himself. The 
latter then produced his novel as ready for the press. The 
Doctor looked into it, saw its merit, and went away with it to 
Mr. Newbery, who gave him 60Z. for it ; with this sum he re- 
turned to Goldsmith, who, with many invectives, paid his 
landlady her rent. Newbery, however, seems not to have 
been very sanguine in his hope of this novel ; for he kept 
the MS. by him near three years unprinted : his ready pur 
chase of it, probably, was in the way of a benefaction to its 

*A steep flight of stairs (commonly so termed) leading from the 
door of his lodging house in Green- Arbor court to Fleet-market. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



19 



distressed author, rather than under any idea of profit by the 
publication. 

Early in the year 1763, Goldsmith removed to lodgings at 
Canonbury-house, Islington, -where he compiled several works 
for Mr. Newbery ; among which were 'The Art of Poetry,' 
2 vols. 12mo ; a ' Life of Nash ; 'and a ' History of England, 
in a Series of Letters from a Nobleman to his son.' This 
latter book was for a long time attributed to George Lord 
Lyttleton. 

In the following year he took chambers on the upper story 
of the Library stair-case in the Inner Temple, and began to 
live in a genteel style. Still, however, he was little known, 
except among the booksellers, till the year 1765, when he 
produced his poem called ' The Traveller ; or, A Prospect of 
Society,' which had obtained high commendation from Dr. 
Johnson, who declared ' that there had not been so fine a po- 
em since the time of Pope ; ' yet such was Goldsmith's diffi- 
dence that, though he had completed it some years before, 
he had not courage enough to publish, till urged to it by 
Johnson's suggestions. This poem heightened his literary 
character with the booksellers, and introduced him to several 
persons of superior rank and talents, as Lord Nugent (after- 
wards earl of Clare), Mr. Burke, Sir Joshua Eeynolds, Dr. 
Nugent, Mr. Bennet Langton, Mr. Topham Beauclerc, etc., 
and he was elected one of the first members of ' The Literary 
Club,' which had been just instituted by Johnson, Burke, 
and Sir Joshua, and met at the Turk's-head, Gerard-street, 
Soho, every Friday evening. 

His pathetic ballad of ' The Hermit,' which was also pub- 
lished in 1765, recommended him to the Countess (afterwards 
Duchess) of Northumberland, who was a generous patroness 



20 aikin's memoies of 

of merit. In the following year Ms 'Vicar of Wakefield' 
was printed, and universally read and admired. 

His reputation being now fairly established as a novelist, a 
poet, and a critic, Goldsmith turned his thoughts to the dra- 
ma, and set about his comedy called 'The Good-natured 
Man ' This he first offered to Garrick, who, after a long 
fluctuation between doubt and encouragement, at length de- 
clined bringing it forward at Drury-lane theatre ; it was 
therefore taken to Covent-garden, accepted by Mr. Colman, 
and presented for the first time on the 29th of January, 1768. 
It was acted nine times : and by the profits of the author's 
three third-nights, with the sale of the copyright, a clear 
500Z. was produced. 

With this, and some money which he had reserved out of 
the produce of a 'Roman History' in 2 vols. Svo., and other 
works, he was enabled to descend from, his attic story in the 
Inner Temple, and to purchase for 400Z., and furnish elegant- 
ly, a spacious set of chambers on the first floor, at No. 2, 
Brick-court, Middle Temple. 

On the establishment of the Royal Academy, in 1769, Sir 
Joshua Reynolds recommended Goldsmith to his Majesty for 
the Honorable Professorship of History, which was graciously 
conferred on him. In the following year he produced that 
highly-flnished poem called the ' Deserted Village.' Previ- 
ous to its publication, we are told, the bookseller (Mr. Grif- 
fin, of Catharine street, Strand), had given him a note of a 
hundred guineas for the copy. This circumstance Goldsmith 
mentioned soon afterwards to a friend, who observed that it 
was a large sum for so small a performance. ' In truth,' re- 
plied Goldsmith, 'I think so too ; it is near five shillings a 
couplet, which is much more than the honest man can afford, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 21 

and, indeed, niore than any modern poetry is worth. I have 
not been easy since I received it ; I will, therefore, go back 
and return him his note ; ' which he actually did ; but the 
sale was so rapid, that the bookseller soon paid him the hun- 
dred guineas with proper acknowledgments for the generos- 
ity of his conduct. 

Soon after the appearance of the Deserted Village, our 
author paid a tribute to the memory of Dr. Parnell, in a Life 
prefixed to a new edition of his ' Poems on several Occasions.' 
In the year 1771 he produced his ' History of England, from 
the earliest Times to the Death of George II.,' in 4 vols. 8vo.; 
for which Mr. Thomas Davies, the bookseller, paid him 5001. 

The Earl of Lisburne, one day at a dinner of the Royal 
Academicians, lamented to Goldsmith that he should neglect 
the muses to compile histories, and write novels, instead of 
penning poetry with which he was sure to charm his read- 
ers. 'My lord,' replied our author, 'in courting the muses I 
should starve ; but by my other labors I eat, drink, wear 
good clothes, and enjoy the luxuries of life. ' 

Goldsmith had, besides his regular works, much of the oth- 
jt business of an author by profession ; such as penning Pref- 
aces and Introductions to the books of ether writers ; some 
of these have been published among his prose works ; but, 
no doubt, many remain at this day unknown. 

His second dramatic effort, being a comedy called ' She 
Stoops to Conquer ; or, The Mistakes of a Xight,' was first 
presented at Covent-garden theatre, March 15, 1773, and re- 
ceived with an applause fully adequate to the author's san- 
guine hopes, and contrary to the expectations of M. Colman, 
who had not consf-uted to receive the piece but at the earnest 
and reiterated i^yv^ces of many friends. What was called 



22 aikin's memoirs of 

sentimental comedy bad at that time got an unaccountable 
bold of the public taste ; Kelly was subserving tbis un-Brit- 
isb propensity by bis ' False Delicacy,' etc., and Goldsmith's 
piece (which was designed by him to bring back the town to 
a relish of humor), being certainly in the opposite extreme, 
and hardly anything else than a farce of five acts instead of 
two, Colman, and his actors from him, had predestined the 
play to condemnation ; when, therefore, towards the conclu- 
sion of the first performance, the author expressed some ap- 
prehension lest one of the jokes put into the mouth of Tony 
Lumpkin should not be relished by the audience, the man- 
ager, who bad been in fear through the whole piece, replied, 
' D — n it, Doctor, don't be terrified at a squib ; why, we have 
been sitting these two hours on a barrel of gunpowder.' 
Goldsmith's pride was so hurt at this remark, that the friend- 
ship which had till then subsisted between him and Colman, 
was thenceforth annihilated. 

The piece had a great run, and the author cleared by the 
third-nights, and the sale of the copy, upwards of 800Z. Dr. 
Johnson said of it, ' That he knew of no comedy for many 
years that had so much exhilarated an audience, that had an- 
swered so much the great end of comedy, — the making an 
audience merry.' It certainly added much to the author's 
reputation, and is still, with his 'Good-natured Man,' on 
the list of acting plays ; but it brought on him the envy and 
malignity of some of his contemporaries : and in the London 
Packet of Wednesday, March 24, 1773, printed for T. Evans, 
in Paternoster-row, appeared the following scurrilous epistle, 
evidently designed to injure his third-night (being the ninth 
representation) : — 



OLIYJtE GOLDSMITH. 23 

'TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 

' Vous vous noyez en vanite. 

' Sir. — The happy knack which you have learnt of puffing 
four own compositions, provokes me to come forth. You 
have not been the editor of newspapers and magazines, not 
to discover the trick of literary humbug. But the gauze is so 
thin, that the very foolish part of the world see through it, 
and discover the Doctor's monkey face and cloven foot. Your 
poetic vanity is as unpardonable as your personal. Would 
man believe it, and will woman bear it, to be told that for 
hours the great Goldsmith will stand surveying his grotesque 
Oranhotan's figure in a pier-glass? Was but the lovely H — k 
as much enamored, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in 
vain. But your vanity is preposterous. How will this same 
bard of Bedlam ring the changes in praise of Goldy ! But 
what has he to be either proud or vain of? The " Traveller " 
is a flimsy poem, built upon false principles ; principles diamet- 
rically opposite to liberty. What is the "Good-natured 
Man " but a poor water-gruel, dramatic dose ? What is " The 
Deserted Village" but a pretty poem of easy numbers, with- 
out fancy, dignity, genius, or fire ? And pray what may be 
the last speaking pantomime,* so praised by the Doctor him- 
self, but an incoherent piece of stuff, the figure of a woman 
with a fish's tail, without plot, incident, or intrigue? We are 
made to laugh at stale, dull jokes, wherein we mistake pleas- 
antry for wit, and grimace for humor, wherein every scene 
is unnatural, and inconsistent with the rules, the laws of na- 
ture, and of the drama ; viz. Two gentlemen come to a man 
of fortune's house, eat, drink, sleep, etc., and take it for an 

* Meaning ' She Stoops to Conquer.' 



24 aikin's memoirs of 

inn. The one is intended as a lover to the daughter ; he 
talks with her for some hours, and when he sees her again ir> 
a different dress, he treats her as a bar-girl, and swears she 
squinted. He abuses the master of the house, and threatens 
to kick him out of his own doors. The 'Squire, whom we 
are told is to be a fool, proves to be the most sensible being 
of the piece ; and he makes out a whole act by bidding his 
mother lie close behind a bush, persuading her that his father, 
her own husband, is a highwayman, and that he is come to 
cut their throats ; and to give his cousin an opportunity to go 
off, he drives his mother over hedges, ditches, and through 
ponds. There is not, sweet, sucking Johnson, a natural stroke 
in the whole play, but the young fellow's giving the stolen 
jewels to the mother, supposing her to be the landlady. 
That Mr. Colman did no justice to this piece, I honestly 
allow ; that he told all his friends it would be damned, I pos- 
itively aver ; and from such ungenerous i insinuations, with- 
out a dramatic merit, it rose to public notice ; and it ig now 
the ton to go to see it, though I never saw a person that 
either liked it or approved it, any more than the absurd plot 
of the Home's tragedy of Alonzo. Mr. Goldsmith, correct 
your arrogance, reduce your vanity, and endeavor to believe, 
as a man, you are of the plainest sort ; and as an author, but 
a mortal piece of mediocrity.' 

' Brisez le miroir infldele, 
Qui vous cache la verite. 

'Tom Tickle.' 

By one of those ' d. d good-natured friends,' who are 

described by Sir Fretful Plagiary, the newspaper containing 
the foregoing offensive letter was eagerly brought to Gold- 
smith, who otherwise, perhaps, had never seen or heard of it. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 25 

Our hero went to the shop brimfull of ire, and finding Evans 
"behind his counter, thus addressed him : ' You have published 
a thing in your paper (my name is Goldsmith) reflecting upon 
a young lady. As for myself I do not mind it.' — Evans at 
this moment stooped down, intending probably to look for a 
paper, that he might see what the enraged author meant, 
when Goldsmith, observing his back to present a fair mark 
for his cane, laid it on lustily. The bibliopolist, however, 
soon defended himself, and a scuffle ensued, in which our 
author got his full share of blows. Dr. Kenrick, who was sit- 
ting in Evans's counting-house, (and who was strongly sus- 
pected to have been the writer of the letter), now came for- 
ward, parted the combatants, and sent Goldsmith home in a 
coach, grievously bruised. 

This attack upon a man, in his own house, furnished mat- 
ter of discussion for some days to the newspapers ; and an 
action at law was threatened to be brought for the assault ; 
but by the interposition of friends the affair was compro- 
mised ; and on Wednesday, the 31st of March, Goldsmith in 
serted the following Address in the Daily Advertiser : — 

'to the public. 

' Lest it should be supposed that I have been willing to 
correct in others an abuse of which I have been guilty my- 
self, I beg leave to declare that in all my life I never wrote 
or dictated a single paragraph, letter, or essay, in a newspa- 
per, except a few moral essays, under the character of a Chi- 
nese, about ten years ago, in the Ledger ; and a letter, to 
which I signed my name, in the St. James's Chronicle. If the 
liberty of the press, therefore, has been abused, I have had 
no hand in it. 

3 



26 AIKIN'S MEMOIRS OF 

' I have always considered the press as the protector of our 
freedom, as a watchful guardian, capable of uniting the weak 
against the encroachments of power. What concerns the 
public most properly admits of a public discussion. But of 
late, the press has turned from defending public interest, to 
making inroads upon private life ; from combating the strong 
to overwhelming the feeble. No condition is now too obscure 
for its abuse, and the protector is become the tyrant of the 
people. In this manner the freedom of the press is begin- 
ning to sow the seeds of its own dissolution ; the. great must 
oppose it from principle, and the weak from fear ; till at last 
every rank of mankind shall be found to give up its benefits, 
content with security from its insults. 

' How to put a stop to this licentiousness, by which all are 
indiscriminately abused, and by which vice consequently es- 
capes in the general censure, I am unable to tell ; all I could 
wish is, that, as the law gives us no protection against the in- 
jury, so it should give calumniators no shelter after having 
provoked correction. The insults which we receive before 
the public, by being more open, are the more distressing. By 
treating them with silent contempt, we do not pay a sufficient 
deference to the opinion of the world. By recurring to legal 
redress, we too often expose the weakness of the law, which 
only serves to increase our mortification by failing to relieve 
us. In short, every man should singly consider himself as a 
guardian of the liberty of the press, and, as far as his influ- 
ence can extend, should endeavor to prevent its licentious- 
ness becoming at last the grave of its freedom. 

Oliver Goldsmith.' 

Mr. Boswell having intimated to Dr. Johnson his suspicions 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 27 

that he was the real writer of this Address, the latter said, 
' Sir, Dr. Goldsmith would no more have asked me to have 
written such a thing as that for him, than he would have 
asked me to feed him with a spoon, or to do anything else 
that denoted his imbecility. I as much believe that he wrote 
it, as if I had seen him do it. Sir, had he shewn it to any 
one friend, he would not have been allowed to publish it. 
He has indeed done it very well ; but it is a foolish thing 
well done. I suppose he has been so much elated with the 
success of his new comedy, that he has thought everything 
that concerns him must be of importance to the public.' 

About a month after this, to oblige Mr. Quick, the come- 
dian, who had very successfully exerted himself in the char- 
acter of Tony Lumpkin, Goldsmith,, we believe, reduced Sed- 
ley 's ' Grumbler ' to a farce : and it was performed for Mr. 
Quick's benefit on the 8th of May, but was never printed ; 
indeed, some persons doubt whether Goldsmith did more 
than revise an alteration which had been made by some 
other person. 

Our author now, oddly enough, took it into his head to re- 
ject the title of Doctor (with which he had been self-invest- 
ed), and to assume the plain address of Mr. Goldsmith ; but 
whatever his motive to this might be, he could not effect it 
with the public, who to the day of his death called him Doc- 
tor; and the same title is usually annexed to his name even 
now, though the degree of Bachelor of Physic was the high- 
est ever actually conferred upon him. 

After having compiled a History of Rome, and two Histo- 
ries of England, he undertook, and completed, in 1773, ' A 
History of the Earth and Animated Nature? in 8 vols. Svo., 
which was printed in 1774, and he received for it 850? 



28 aikin's memoirs of 

The emoluments which he had derived from his writings 
for some few years past were, indeed, very considerable ; but 
were rendered useless in effect, by an incautious liberality, 
which prevented his distinguishing proper from improper ob- 
jects of his bounty; and also by an unconquerable itch for 
gaming, a pursuit in which his impatience of temper, and his 
want of skill, wholly disqualified him for succeeding. 

His last production, 'Retaliation' was written for his own 
amusement and that of his friends who were the subjects of 
it. That he did not live to finish it is to be lamented ; for 
it is supposed that he would have introduced more characters. 
What he has left, however, is nearly perfect in its kind ; with 
wonderful art he has traced all the leading features of his 
several portraits, and given with truth the characteristic pe- 
culiarities of each ; no man is lampooned, no man is flatter- 
ed. The occasion of the poem was a circumstance of festiv- 
ity. A literary party with which he occasionally dined at the 
St. James's coffee-house, one day proposed to write epitaphs on 
hin. In these his person, dialect, etc., were good-humoredly 
ridiculed ; and as Goldsmith could not disguise his feelings 
on the occasion, he was called upon for a Eetaliation, which 
he produced at the next meeting of the party ; but this, with 
his 'Haunch of Venison,' and some other short poems, were 
not printed till after his death. 

He had at this time ready for the press 'The Grecian His- 
tory, from the earliest State to the Death of Alexander the 
Great,' which was afterwards printed in 2 vols. 8vo. He had 
also formed a design of compiling a ' Universal Dictionary of 
Arts and Sciences,' a prospectus of which lie printed and sent 
to his friends, many of whom had promised to furnish him 
with articles on different subjects. The booksellers, however, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 29 

though they had a high opinion of his abilities, were startled 
at the bulk, importance, and expense of so great an under- 
taking, the execution of which was to depend upon a man 
with whose indolence of temper, and method of procrastina- 
tion, they had long been acquainted ; the coldness with which 
they met his proposals was lamented by Goldsmith to the hour 
of his death, which seems to have been accelerated by a ne- 
glect of his health, occasioned by continual vexation of mind, 
on account of his frequently involved circumstances, although 
the last year's produce of his labor is generally believed to 
have amounted to 1800£. 

In the spring of 1774 he was attacked in a very severe 
manner by the stranguary, a disease of which he had often ex- 
perienced slight symptoms. It now induced a nervous fever, 
which required medical assistance, and on the 25th of March 
he sent for his friend Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, to whom 
he related the symptoms of his malady, expressing at the same 
time a disgust with life and a despondency which did not well 
become a man of his understanding. He told Mr. Hawes that 
he had taken two ounces of ipecacuanha wine as an emetic, 
and that it was his intention to take Dr. James's fever pow- 
ders, which he desired he would send him. Mr. Hawes rep- 
resented to his patient the impropriety of taking the medi- 
cine at that time, but no argument could induce him to re- 
linquish his intention. Finding this, and justly apprehen- 
sive of the fatal consequences of his putting this rash resolve 
in execution, he requested permission to send for Dr. Fordyce, 
of whose medical abilities he knew that Goldsmith had the 
highest opinion. Dr. Fordyce came, and corroborated the 
apothecary's assertion, adding every argument that he could 
think of to dissuade him from using the powders in the pres- 
3* 



30 aikin's memoirs of 

ent case ; but deaf to all the remonstrances of Ms physician 
and his friend, he obstinately persisted in his resolution. 

The next day Mr. Hawes again visited his patient, and in- 
quiring of him how he did, Goldsmith sighed deeply, and in 
a dejected tone said, ' I wish I had taken your friendly ad- 
vice last night.' Dr. Fordyce came, and, finding the alarm- 
ing symptoms increase, desired Mr. Hawes to propose send- 
ing for Dr. Turton : to this Goldsmith readily assented. The 
two physicians met, and held consultations twice a day till 
Monday, April 4th, when their patient died. 

Warmth of affection induced Sir Joshua Eeynolds and 
other friends of Goldsmith to lay a plan for a sumptuous 
public frneral ; according to which he was to have been in- 
terred in Westminster Abbey, and his pall to have been sup- 
ported by Lord Shelburne (afterwards Marquis of Lans- 
downe), Lord Louth, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Mr. Edmund 
Burke, the Hon. Topham Beauclerc, and Mr. Garrick ; but on 
a slight inspection of his affairs, it was found that, so far from 
having left property to justify so expensive a proceeding, he 
was about 2001. in debt. The original intention, therefore, 
was abandoned, and he was privately interred in the Temple 
burial-ground at five o'clock on Saturday evening, April 9th, 
attended by the Eev. Joseph Palmer (nephew of Sir Joshua 
Reynolds, and afterwards Dean of Cashel in Ireland), Mr. 
Hugh Kelly, Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Hawes, Messrs. John and 
Robert Day, and Mr. Etherington. 

A subscription, however, was speedily raised among Gold- 
smith's friends, but chiefly by the Literary Club ; and a mar- 
ble monumental stone, executed by Nollekens, consisting of a 
large medallion, exhibiting a good resemblance of our author 
in profile, embellished with appropriate ornaments, was plao- 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 31 

ed in Westminster Abbey, between those of Gay the poet 
and the Duke of Argyle, in Poet's Corner ; having under- 
neath, on a tablet of white marble, the following inscription, 
from the pen of his friend, Dr. Johnson : — 

Olivarii Goldsmith, 

Poetae, Physici, Historici, 

Qui nullum fere scribendi genus 

Non tetigit ; 

Nullum quod tetigit non ornavit : 

Sive risus essent movendi 

Sive lacrymae, 

Affectuum potens et lenis dominator, 

Ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis, 

Oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus 

Hoc monumento memoriam coluit 

Sodalium amor, 

Amicorum fides, 

Lectorum veneratio. 

Natus in Hibernia, Forneise Longfordiensis, 

In loco cui nomen Pallas, 

Nov. XXIX, MDCCXXXI* 

Eblanse Uteris institutus, 

Obiit Londini, 

Apr. IV, MDCCLXXIV. 

Of which the following is a translation : — 

By the love of his associates, 
The fidelity of his friends, 
And the veneration of his readers, 
This monument is raised 

* Johnson had been misinformed in these particulars : it has been 
since ascertained that he was born at Elphin, in the county of Ros- 
common, Nov. 29, 172S. 



32 AIKIX'S MEMOIRS OF 

To the memory of 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 

A poet, a natural philosopher, and an historian, 

Who left no species of writing untouched by his pen 

Nor touched any that he did not embellish : 

Whether smiles or tears were to be excited, 

He was a powerful yet gentle master 

Over the affections ; 

Of a genius at once sublime, lively, and 

equal to every subject ; 

In expression at once lofty, elegant, and graceful. 

He was born in the kingdom of Ireland, 

At a place called Pallas, in the parish of Forney, 

And county of Longford, 

29th Nov. 1731 * 

Educated at Dublin, 

And died in London, 

4th April, 1774. 

Beside this Latin epitaph, Dr Johnson honored the memo- 
ry of Goldsmith with the following short one in Greek : — 

Hbv rdtpGV eiGopdag tov OMj3apioi,o, kovitjv 
A(j>poac fir] ae/u.vrjv, Hew>e, Trofiecroi vrarei • 

OZffi (ikfirfkE <pvaig, fierpuv xapiq, itpya -wakaiovv 
K/latere izoajTrjv, loTopmov, (pvocaov, 

Mr. Boswell, who was very intimately acquainted with 
Goldsmith, thus speaks of his person and character : — 

' The person of Goldsmith was short ;. his countenance 
coarse and vulgar ; his deportment that of a scholar, awk- 
wardly affecting the complete gentleman. No man had the 
art of displaying, with more advantage, whatever literary ac- 
quisitions he made. His mind resembled a fertile but thin 
soil ; there was a quick but not a strong vegetation of what- 

*See the Note on the preceeding page. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 33 

ever chanced to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be 
struck. The oak of the forest did not grow there ; but the 
elegant shrubbery, and the fragrant parterre, appeared in gay 
succession. It has been generally circulated, and believed, 
that he was a mere fool in conversation. In allusion to this, 
Mr. Horatio Walpole, who admired his writings, said, he was 
" an inspired idiot ; " and Grarrick describes him as one, — 

" for shortness called Noll, 



Who wrote like an angel, and talk'd like poor Poll." 

But in reality these descriptions are greatly exaggerated. He 
had no doubt a more than common share of that hurry of 
ideas which we often find in his countrymen, and which 
sometimes introduces a laughable confusion in expressing 
them. He was very much what the French call un etourdi : 
and from vanity and an eager desire of being conspicuous 
wherever he was, he frequently talked carelessly, without 
any knowledge of the subject, or even without thought. Those 
who were any ways distinguished, excited envy in him to so 
ridiculous an excess, that the instances of it are hardly credi- 
ble. He, I am told, had no settled system of any sort, so that 
his conduct must not be too strictly criticised ; but his affec- 
tions were social and generous ; and when he had money, he 
bestowed it liberally. His desires of imaginary consequence 
frequently predominated over his attention to truth. 

' His prose has been admitted as the model of perfection, 
and the standard of the English language. Dr. Johnson says, 
" Goldsmith was a man of such variety of powers, and such 
felicity of performance, that he seemed to excel in whatever 
he attempted ; a man who had the art of being minute with- 
out tediousness, and generally without confusion ; whose Ian- 



34 aikin's memoirs of 

guage was capacious without exuberance ; exact without re 
straint ; and easy without weakness." 

' His merit as a poet is universally acknowledged. His 
writings partake rather of the elegance and harmony of Pope, 
than the grandeur and sublimity of Milton ; and it is to be 
lamented that his poetical productions are not more numer- 
ous ; for though his ideas flowed rapidly, he arranged them 
with great caution, and occupied much time in polishing his 
periods, and harmonizing his numbers. 

"His most favorite poems are, " The Traveller," " Deserted 
Village," " Hermit," and " Retaliation." These productions 
may be justly ranked with the most admired works in Eng- 
lish poetry. 

'-'The Traveller" delights us with a display of charming 
imagery, refined ideas, and happy expressions. The charac- 
teristics of the different nations are strongly marked, and the 
predilection of each inhabitant in favor of his own ingenious- 
ly described. 

' " The Deserted Village " is generally admired ; the char- 
acters are drawn from the life. The descriptions are lively 
and picturesque ; and the whole appears so easy and natural, 
as to bear the semblence of historical truth more than poeti- 
cal fiction. The description of the parish priest, (probably 
intended for a character of his brother Henry) would have 
done honor to any poet of any age. In this description, the 
simile of the bird teaching her young to fly, and of the moun- 
tain that rises above the storm, are not easily to be paralleled. 
The rest of the poem consists of the character of the village 
schoolmaster, and a description of the village alehouse ; both 
drawn with admirable propriety and force ; a descant on the 
mischiefs of luxury and wealth ; the variety of artificial pleas 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 35 

ures ; tlie miseries of those who, for "want of employment at 
home, are driven to settle new colonies abroad ; and con 
eludes with a beautiful apostrophe to poetry. 

' " The Hermit " holds equal estimation with the rest o\ 
his poetical productions. 

'His last poern, of " Retaliation," is replete with humor, 
free from spleen, and forcibly exhibits the prominent features 
of the several characters to which it alludes. Dr. Johnson 
sums up his literary character in the following concise man- 
ner : " Take him [Goldsmith] as a poet, his ' Traveller ' is a 
very fine performance ; and so is his ' Deserted Village,' were 
it not sometimes too much the echo of his ' Traveller.' 
Whether we take him as a poet, as a comic writer, or as an 
historian, he stands in the first class." ' 

We have before observed, that his poem of ' Retaliation ' 
was provoked by several j ocular epitaphs written upon him 
by the different members of a dinner club to which he be 
longed. Of these we subjoin a part of that which was pro 
duced by Garrick : — 

'Here, Hermes, says Jove, who with nectar was mellow, 
Go, fetch me some clay — I will make an odd fellow. 
Right and wrong shall be jumbled ; much gold and some dross ; 
"Without cause be he pleased, without cause be he cross ; 
Be sure, as I work, to throw in contradictions ; 
A great lover of truth, yet a mind turned to fictions. 
Now mix these ingredients, which, warm'd in the baking, 
Turn to learning and gaming, religion and raking ; 
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste, 
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste ; 
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail, 
Set fire to his head, and set fire to his tail ; 
For the joy of each sex on the world I'll bestow it, 
This scholar, rake, christian, dupe, gamester, and poet. 



36 aikin's memoirs of 

Though a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame, 
And among other mortals be Goldsmith his name. 
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear, 
You, Hermes, shall fetch him, to make us sport here. 

To these we shall add another sketch of our author (by 
way of Epitaph), written by a friend as soon as he heard of 
his death ; — 

' Here rests from the cares of the world and his pen, 
A poet whose like we shall scarce meet again; 
Who, though form'd in an age when corruptions ran high, 
And folly alone seem'd with folly to vie ; 
When Genius with traffic too commonly train'd, 
Recounted her merits by what she had gain'd, 
Yet spurn'd at those walks of debasement and pelf, 
And in poverty's spite dared to think for himself. 
Thus freed from those fetters the muses oft bind, 
He wrote from the heart to the hearts of mankind ; 
And such was the prevalent force of his song, 
Sex, ages, and parties, he drew in a throng. 

' The lovers — 't was theirs to esteem and commend, 
For his Hermit had proved him their tutor and friend. 
The stateman, his politic passions on fire, 
Acknowledged repose from the charms of his lyre. 
The moralist too had a feel for his rhymes, 
For his Essays were curbs on the rage of the times. 
Nay, the critic, all school'd in grammatical sense, 
Who looked in the glow of description for tense, 
Reform' d as he read, fell a dupe to his art, 
And confess'd by his eyes what he felt at his heart. 

' Yet, bless'd with original powers like these, 
His principal forte was on paper to please; 
Like a fleet footed hunter, though first in the cbase, 
On the road of plain sense he oft slackened his pace; 
Whilst Dullness and Cunning, by whipping and goring, 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 37 

Their hard-footed hackneys paraded before him. 

Compoiinded likewise of such primitive parts, 

That his manners alone -would have gain'd him our hearts, 

So simple in truth, so ingenuously kind, 

So ready to feel for the wants of mankind; 

Yet praise but an author of popular quill, 

This lux of philanthropy quickly stood still ; 

Transform'd from himself, he grew meanly severe, 

And rail' d at those talents he ought not to fear. 

! Such then were his foibles; but though they were such 
As shadow'd the picture a little too much, 
The style was all graceful, expressive, and grand, 
And the whole the result of a masterly hand. 

' Then hear me, blest spirit ! now seated above, 
Where all is beatitude, concord, and love, 
If e'er thy regards were bestow'd on mankind, 
Thy muse as a legacy leave us behind. 
I ask it by proxy for letters and fame, 
As the pride of our heart and the old English name. 
I demand it as such for virtue and truth, 
As the solaee of age and the guide of our youth. 
Consider what poets surround us — how dull ! 

From Minstrelsy B e to Rosamond H — 11 ! 

Consider what K — ys enervate the stage; 

Consider what K cks may poison the age ; 

O ! protect us from such, nor let it be said, 

That in Goldsmith the last British poet lies dead!' 



ON THE 

POETRY OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 

BY DR. AIKIN. 



Among those false opinions which, having once obtained 
currency, have been adopted without examination, may be 
reckoned the prevalent notion, that, notwithstanding the im- 
provement of this country in many species of literary compo- 
sition, its poetical character has been on the decline ever since 
the supposed Augustan age of the beginning of this [the 18th] 
century. No one poet, it is true, has fully succeeded to the 
laurel of Dryden or Pope ; but if without prejudice we com- 
pare the minor poets of the present age (minor, I mean, with 
respect to the quantity not the quality of their productions), 
with those of any former period, we shall, I am convinced, 
find them greatly superior not only in taste and correctness, 
but in every other point of poetical excellence. The works 
of many late and present writers might be confidently appeal- 
ed to in proof of this assertion ; but it will suffice to instance 
the author who is the subject of the present Essay; and I 
cannot for a moment hesitate to place the name of Goldsmith 
as a poet, above that of Addison, Parnell, Tickell, Congreve, 
Lansdown, or any of those who fill the greater part of the 



ON DB. GOLDSMITH'S POETRY. 39 

voluminous collection of the English Poets. Of these, the 
main body has obtained a prescriptive right to the honor of 
classical writers ; while their works, ranged on the shelves as 
necessary appendages to a modern library, are rarely taken 
down, and contribute very little to the stock of literary 
amusement. Whereas the pieces of Goldsmith are familiar 
companions ; and supply passages for recollection, when our 
minds are either composed to moral reflection, or warmed by 
strong emotions and elevated conceptions. There is, I ac- 
knowledge, much of habit and accident in the attachments 
we form to particular writers ; yet T have little doubt, that 
if the lovers of English poetry were confined to a small selec- 
tion of authors, Goldsmith would find a place in the favor- 
ite list of a great majority. And it is, I think, with much 
justice that a great modern critic has ever regarded this con- 
currence of public favor as one of the least equivocal tests of 
uncommon merit. Some kinds of excellence, it is true, will 
more readily be recognized than others : and this will not 
always be in proportion to the degree of mental power em- 
ployed in the respective productions : but he who obtains 
general and lasting applause in any work of art, must have 
happily executed a design judiciously formed. This remark 
is of fundamental consequence in estimating the poetry of 
Goldsmith ; because it will enable us to hold the balance 
steady, when it might be disposed to incline to the superior 
claims of a style of loftier pretension, and more brilliant 
reputation. 

Compared with many poets of deserved eminence, Gold- 
smith will appear characterized by his simplicity. In his lan- 
guage will be found few of those figures which are supposed 
of themselves to constitute poetry ; — no violent transpositions ; 



40 ON THE POETRY 

uo uncommon meanings and constructions ; no epithets drawn 
from abstract and remote ideas ; no coinage of new words by 
the ready mode of turning nouns into verbs ; no bold prosopo- 
poeia, or audacious metaphor: — it scarcely contains an ex- 
pression which might not be used in eloquent and descrip- 
tive prose. It is replete with imagery ; but that imagery is 
drawn from obvious sources, and rather enforces the simple 
idea, than dazzles by new and unexpected ones. It rejects not 
common words and jmrases ; and, like the language of Dryden 
and Otway, is thereby rendered the more forcible and pathet- 
ic. It is eminently nervous and concise ; and hence affords 
numerous passages which dwell on the memory. With re- 
spect to his matter, it is taken from human life, and the ob- 
jects of nature. It does not body forth things unknown, and 
create new beings. Its humbler purpose is to represent man- 
ners and characters as they really exist ; to impress strongly 
on the heart moral and political sentiments ; and to fill the 
imagination with a variety of pleasing or affecting objects 
selected from the stores of nature. If this be not the highest 
department of poetry, it has the advantage of being the most 
universally agreeable. To receive delight from the sublime 
fictions of Milton, the allegories of Spenser, the learning of 
Gray, and the fancy of Collins, the mind must have been pre- 
pared by a course of particular study ; and perhaps, at a cer- 
tain period of life, when the judgment exercises a severer 
scrutiny over the sallies of the imagination, the relish for ar- 
tificial beauties will always abate, if not entirely desert us. 
But at every age, and with every degree of culture, correct 
and well-chosen representations of nature must please. We 
admire them when young ; we recur to them when old ; and 
they charm us till nothing longer can charm. Farther, in 
forming a scale of excellence for artists, we are not onlv to 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 41 

consider who works upon the noblest design, but who fills his 
design best. It is, in reality, but a poor excuse for a slovenly 
performer to ' magnis tarnen excidit ausis;' and the addition 
of one master-piece of any kind to the stock of art is a great- 
er benefit than that of a thousand abortive and mis-shapen 
wonders. 

If Goldsmith then be referred to the class of descriptive 
poets, including the description of moral as well as of physical 
nature, it will next be important to inquire by what means 
he has attained the rank of a master in his class. Let us then 
observe how he has selected, combined, and contrasted his 
objects, with what truth and strength of coloring he has ex 
pressed them, and to what end and purpose. 

As poetry and eloquence do not describe by an exact enu- 
meration of every circumstance, it is necessary to select cer- 
tain particulars which may excite a sufficiently distinct im- 
age of the thing to be represented. In this selection, the great 
art is to give characteristic marks, whereby the object may at 
once be recognized, without being obscured in a mass of com- 
mon properties, which belong equally to many others. Hence 
the great superiority of particular images to general ones in 
description : the former identify, while the latter disguise. 
Thus, all the hackneyed representations of the country in the 
works of ordinary versifiers, in which groves, and rills, and 
flowery meads are introduced just as the rhyme and measure 
require, present nothing to the fancy but an indistinct daub 
of coloring, in which all the diversity of nature is lost and 
confounded. To catch the discriminating features, and pres- 
ent them bold and prominent, by few but decisive strokes, is 
the talent of a master ; and it will not be easy to produce a 
superior to Goldsmith in this respect. The mind is never 
4* 



*2 ON THE TOETKY 

m doubt as to the meaning of liis figures, nor does it languish 
over the survey of trivial and unappropriated circumstances. 
All is alive — all is filled — yet all is clear. 

The proper combination of objects refers to the impression 
they are calculated to make on the mind ; and requires that 
they should harmonize, and reciprocally enforce and sustain 
each other's effect. They should unite in giving one leading 
tone to the imagination ; and without a sameness of form, 
they should blend in an uniformity of hue. This, too, has 
very successfully been attended to by Goldsmith, who has 
not only sketched his single figures with truth and spirit, but 
has combined them into the most harmonious and impressive 
groups. Nor has any descriptive poet better understood the 
great force of contrast, in setting off his scenes, and prevent- 
ing any approach to wearisomeness by repetition of kindred 
objects. And, with great skill, he has contrived that both 
parts of his contrast should conspire in producing one intend- 
ed moral effect. Of all these excellences, examples will be 
pointed out as we take a cursory view of the particular pieces. 

In addition to the circumstances already noted, ike force 
and clearness of representation depend also on the diction. It 
has already been observed, that Goldsmith's language is re- 
markable for its general simplicity, and the direct and proper 
use of words. It has ornaments, but these are not far-fetched. 
The epithets employed are usually qualities strictly belonging 
to the subject, and the true coloring of the simple figure. They 
are frequently contrived to express a necessary circumstance 
in the description, and thus avoid the usual imputation of 
being expletive. Of this kind are ' the rattling terrors of the 
vengeful snake ; ' ' indurated heart ; ' ' shed intolerable day ; ' 
' matted woods ; ' ' ventrous ploughshare ; ' 'equinoctial fer- 
vors.' The examples are not few of that indisputable mark 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 43 

of true poetic language, where a single word conveys an im- 
age ; as in these instances : 'resignation gently slopes the way ;' 
' scoops out an empire ; ' ' the vessel, idly waiting, flaps with 
every gale ; ' ' to winnow fragrance ; ' ' murmurs fluctuate in 
the gale.' All metaphor, indeed, does this in some degree ; 
but where the accessory idea is either indistinct or incongru- 
ous, as frequently happens when it is introduced as an arti- 
fice to force language up to poetry, the effect is only a gaudy 
obscurity. 

The end and purpose to which description is directed is 
what distinguishes a well-planned piece from a loose effusion ; 
for though a vivid representation of striking objects will ever 
afford some pleasure, yet if aim and design be wanting, to 
give it a basis, and stamp it with the dignity of meaning, it 
will in a long performance prove flat and tiresome. But this 
is a want which cannot be charged on Goldsmith ; for both 
the Traveller and the Deserted Village have a great moral in 
view, to which the whole of the description is made to tend. 
I do not now inquire into the legitimacy of the conclusions 
tie has drawn from his premises ; it is enough to justify his 
plans, that such a purpose is included in them. 

The versification of Goldsmith is formed on the general 
model that has been adopted since the refinement of English 
poetry, and especially since the time of Pope. To manage 
rhyme couplets so as to produce a pleasing effect on the ear 
has since that period been so common an attainment, that it 
merits no particular admiration. Goldsmith may, I think, 
be said to have come up to the usual standard of proficiency 
in this respect, without having much surpassed it. A musical 
ear, and a familiarity with the best examples, have enabled 
him, without much apparent study, almost always to avoid 



44 ON THE POETRY 

defect, and very often to produce excellence. It is no censure 
of this poet to say that his versification presses less on the 
attention than his matter. In fact he has none of those pe- 
culiarities of versifying, whether improvements or not, that 
some who aim at distinction in this point have adopted. He 
generally suspends or closes the sense at the end of the line 
or of the couplet ; and therefore does not often give exam- 
ples of that greater compass and variety of melody which is 
obtained by longer clauses, or by breaking the coincidences 
of the cadence of sound and meaning. He also studiously 
rejects triplets and alexandrines. But allowing for the want 
of these sources of variety, he has sufficiently avoided monot- 
ony ; and in the usual flow of his measure, he has gratified 
the ear with as much change, as judiciously shifting the line- 
pause can produce. 

Having made these general observations on the nature of 
Goldsmith's poetry, I proceed to a survey of his principal 
pieces. 

The Traveller, or Prospect of Society, was first sketched out 
by the author during a tour in Europe, great part of which 
he performed on foot, and in circumstances which afforded 
him the fullest means of becoming acquainted with the most 
numerous class in society, peculiarly termed the people. The 
date of the first edition is 1765. It begins in the gloomy 
mood natural to genius in distress, when wandering alone, 

' Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow. 1 

After an affectionate and regretful glance to the peaceful 
seat of fraternal kindness, and some expressions of self-pity 
the Poet sits down amid Alpine solitudes to spend a pensive 
hour in meditating on the state of mankind. He finds that 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 45 

the natives of every land regard their own with preference ; 
whence he is led to this proposition,— that if we impartially 
compare the advantages belonging to different countries, we 
shall conclude that an equal portion of good is dealt to all the 
human race. He farther supposes, that every nation, having 
in view one peculiar species of happiness, models life to that 
alone ; whence this favorite kind, pushed to an extreme, be- 
comes a source of peculiar evils. To exemplify this by in- 
stances, is the business of the subsequent descriptive part of 
the piece. 

Italy is the first country that comes under review. Its gen- 
eral landscape is painted by a few characteristic strokes, and 
the felicity of its climate is displayed in appropriate imagery. 
The revival of arts and commerce in Italy, and their subse- 
quent decline, are next touched upon ; and hence is derived 
the present disposition of the people — easily pleased with 
splendid trifles, the wrecks of their former grandeur ; and 
sunk into an enfeebled moral and intellectual character, re- 
ducing them to the level of children. 

From these he turns with a sort of disdain, to view a no- 
bler race, hardened by a rigorous climate, and by the neces- 
sity of unabating toil. These are the Stoiss, who find, in the 
equality of their condition, and their ignorance of other modes 
of life, a source of content which remedies the natural evils 
of their lot. There cannot be a more delightful picture than 
the poet has drawn of the Swiss peasant, going forth to his 
morning's labor, and returning at night to the bosom of do- 
mestic happiness. It sufficiently accounts for that patriot pas- 
sion for which they have ever been so celebrated, and which 
is here described in lines that reach the heart, and is illustrat 
ed by a beautiful simile. But this state of life has also its 



46 ON THE POETRY 

disadvantages. The sources of enjoyment being few, a va- 
cant listlessness is apt to creep upon the breast ; and if nat- 
ure urges to throw this off by occasional bursts of pleasure, 
no stimulus can reach the purpose but gross sensual debauch. 
Their morals, too, like their enjoyments, are of a coarse tex- 
ture. Some sterner virtues hold high dominion in their 
breast, but all the gentler and more refined qualities of the 
heart, which soften and sweeten life, are exiled to milder 
climates. 

To the more genial climate of France the traveller next 
repairs, and in a very pleasing rural picture he introduces 
himself in the capacity of musician to a village party of danc- 
ers beside the murmuring Loire. The leading feature of this 
nation he represents as being the love of praise ; which pas- 
sion, while it inspires sentiments of honor, and a desire of 
pleasing, also affords a free course to folly, and nourishes van- 
ity and ostentation. The soul, accustomed to depend for its 
happiness on foreign applause, shifts its principles with the 
change of fashion, and is a stranger to the value of self-ap- 
probation. 

The strong contrast to this national character is sought in 
Holland ; a most graphical description of the scenery present- 
ed by that singular country introduces the moral portrait of 
the people. From the necessity of unceasing labor, induced 
by their peculiar circumstances, a habit of industry has been 
formed, of which the natural consequence is a love of gain. 
The possession of exuberant wealth has given rise to the arts 
and conveniences of life ; but at the same time has introduc- 
ed a crafty, cold, and mercenary temper, which sets every- 
thing, even liberty itself, at a price. How different, exclaims 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 47 

the poet, from their Belgian ancestors ! how different from 
the present race of Britain ! 

To Britain, then, he turns, and begins with a slight sketch 
of the country, in which, he says, the mildest charms of crea 
tion are combined. 

•Extremes are only in the master's mind.' 

He then draws a very striking picture of a stern, thoughtful, 
independent freeman, a creature of reason, unfashioned by the 
common forms of life, and loose from all its ties ; — and this he 
gives as the representative of the English character. A so- 
ciety formed by such unyielding, self-dependent beings, will 
naturally be a scene of violent political contests, and ever in 
a ferment with party. And a still worse fate awaits it ; for 
the ties of nature, duty, and love, failing, the fictitious bonds 
of wealth and law must be employed to hold together such a 
reluctant association ; whence the time may come, that valor, 
learning, and patriotism, may all lie levelled in one sink of 
avarice. These are the ills of freedom ; but the Poet, who 
would only repress to secure, goes on to deliver his ideas of 
the cause of such mischiefs, which he seems to place in the 
usurpations of aristocratical upon regal authority ; and with 
great energy he expresses his indignation at the oppressions 
the poor suffer from their petty tyrants. This leads him to a 
kind of anticipation of the subject of his 'Deserted Village,' 
where, laying aside the politician, and resuming the poet, he 
describes, by a few highly pathetic touches, the depopulated 
fields, the ruined village, and the poor, forlorn inhabitants: 
driven from their beloved home, and exposed to all the per 
ils of the transatlantic wilderness. It is by no means my in 
tention to enter into a discussion of Goldsmith's politica 



48 ON THE POETRY 

opinions, which bear evident marks of confused notions and 
a heated imagination. I shall confine myself to a remark up- 
on the English national character, which will apply to him 
in common with various other writers, native and foreign. 

This country has long been in the possession of more unre- 
strained freedom of thinking and acting than any other per- 
haps that ever existed ; a consequence of which has been that 
all these peculiarities of character, which in other nations 
remain concealed in the general mass, have here stood forth 
prominent and conspicuous ; and these being from their nat- 
ure calculated to draw attention, have by superficial observ- 
ers been mistaken for the general character of the people. 
This has been particularly the case with political distinction. 
From the publicity of all proceedings in the legislative part 
of our constitution and the independence with which many 
act, all party differences are strongly marked, and public men 
take their side with openness and confidence. Public topics, 
too, are discussed by all ranks ; and whatever seeds there are 
in any part of the society of spirit and activity, have full op- 
portunity of germinating. But to imagine that these busy 
and high-spirited characters compose a majority of the com- 
munity, or perhaps a much greater proportion than in other 
countries, is a delusion. This nation, as a body, is, like all 
others, characterized by circumstances of its situation ; and 
a rich commercial people, long trained to society, inhabiting a 
climate where many things are necessary to the comfort of life, 
and under a government abounding with splendid distinc- 
tions cannot possibly be a knot of philosophers and patriots. 

To return from this digression. Though it is probable that 
few of Goldsmith's readers will be convinced, even from 
the instances he has himself produced, that the happiness of 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 49 

mankind is everywhere equal ; yet all will feel the force of 
the truly philosophical sentiment which concludes the piece, 
— that man's chief bliss is ever seated in his mind : and that 
but a small part of real felicity consists in what human gov- 
ernments can either bestow or withhold. 

The Deserted Village, first printed in 1769, is the compan- 
ion-piece of the Traveller, formed, like it, upon a plan which 
unites description with sentiment, and employs both in incul- 
cating a political moral. It is a view of the prosperous and 
ruined state of a country village, with reflections on the caus- 
es of both. Such it may be defined in prose; but the dispo- 
sition, management, and coloring of the piece are all calculat- 
ed for poetical effect. It begins with a delightful picture of 
Auburn, when inhabited by a happy people. The view of the 
village itself, and the rural occupations and pastimes of its 
simple natives, is in the best style of painting, by a selection 
of characteristic circumstances. It is immediately contrasted 
by a similar bold sketch of its ruined and desolated condition. 
Then succeeds an imaginary state of England, in a kind of 
golden age of equality ; with its contrast likewise. The apos- 
trophe that follows, the personal complaint of the poet, and 
the portrait of a sage in retirement, are sweetly sentimental 
touches that break the continuity of description. 

He returns to Auburn, and having premised another mas- 
terly sketch of its two states, in which the images are chiefly 
drawn from sounds, he proceeds to what may be called the 
interior history of the village. In his first figure he has tried 
his strength with Dryden. The parish priest of that great 
poet, improved from Chaucer, is a portrait full of beauty, but 
drawn in a loose, unequal manner, with the flowing vein of 
digressive thought and imagery that stamps his style. The 

5 



50 ON THE POETRY 

subject of the draught, too, is considerably different from that 
of Goldsmith, having more of the ascetic and mortified cast 
in conformity to the saintly model of the Roman Catholic 
priesthood. The pastor of Auburn is more human, but is not 
on that account a less venerable and interesting figure; 
though I know not whether all will be pleased with his fa- 
miliarity with vicious characters, which goes beyond the pur- 
pose of mere reformation. The description of him in his pro- 
fessional character is truly admirable ; and the similes of the 
bird instructing its young to fly, and the tall cliff rising above 
the storm have been universally applauded. The first, I be- 
lieve, is original; — the second is not so, though it has pro- 
bably never been so well drawn and applied. The subse- 
quent sketches of the village schoolmaster and alehouse are 
close imitations of nature in low life, like the pictures of 
Teniers and Hogarth. Yet even these humorous scenes slide 
imperceptibly into sentiment and pathos ; and the comparison 
of the simple pleasures of the poor, with the splendid festivi- 
ties of the opulent, rises to the highest style of moral poetry. 
Who has not felt the force of that reflection, 

'The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?' 

The writer then falls into a strain of reasoning against lux- 
ury and superfluous wealth, in which the sober inquirer will 
find much serious truth, though mixed with poetical exagger- 
ation. The description of the contrasted scenes of magnifi- 
cence and misery in a great metropolis, closed by the pathet- 
ic figure of the forlorn, ruined female, is not to be surpassed. 

Were not the subjects of Goldsmith's description so 
skilfully varied, the uniformity of manner, consisting in an 
enumeration of single circumstances, generally depicted in 



OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 51 

single lines, might tire ; but where is the reader who can 
avoid being hurried along by the swift current of imagery, 
when to such a passage as the last succeeds a landscape fraught 
with all the sublime terrors cf the torid zone ; — and then an 
exquisitely tender history-piece of the departure of the villag- 
ers concluded with a group (slightly touched indeed) or alle- 
gorical personages ? A noble address to the Genius of Poetry, 
in which is compressed the moral of the whole, gives a dig- 
nified finishing to the work. 

If we compare these two principal poems of Goldsmith, 
we may say that the ' Traveller ' is formed on a more regu- 
lar plan, has a higher purpose in view, more abounds in 
thought, and in the expression of moral and philosophical 
ideas : the ' Deserted Village ' has more imagery, more varie- 
ty, more pathos, more of the peculiar character of poetry. In 
the first, the moral and natural descriptions are more gener- 
al and elevated, in the second, they are more particular and 
interesting. Both are truly original productions; but the 
' Deserted "Village ' has less peculiarity, and indeed has given 
rise to imitations which may stand in some parallel with it ; 
while the ' Traveller ' remains an unique. 

With regard to Goldsmith's other poems, a few remarks 
will suffice. The ' Hermit,' printed in the same year with 
the ' Traveller,' has been a very popular piece, as might be 
expected of a tender tale prettily told. It is called a ' Ballad,' 
but I think with no correct application of that term, which 
properly means a story related in language either natur- 
ally or affectedly rude and simple. It has been a sort of a 
fashion to admire these productions ; yet in the really ancient 
ballads, for one stroke of beauty, there are pages of insipidity 
and vulgarity ; and the imitations have been pleasing in pro- 



52 ON DR. goldsmith's poetry. 

portion as they approached more finished compositions. In 
Goldsmith's 'Hermit ' the language is always polished, and 
often ornamented. The best things in it are some neat turns 
of moral and pathetic sentiment, given with a simple concise- 
ness that fits them for being retained in the memory. As to 
the story, it has little fancy or contrivance to recommend it. 
We have already seen that Goldsmith possessed humor ; 
and, exclusively of his comedies, pieces professedly humorous 
form a part of his poetical remains. His imitations of Swift 
are happy, but they are imitations. His tale of the ' Double 
Transformation ' may vie with those of Prior. His own nat- 
ural vein of easy humor flows freely in his ' Haunch of 
Venison ' and ' Retaliation ' ; the first, an admirable specimen 
of a very ludicrous story made out of a common incident by 
the help of conversation and character ; the other, an orig- 
inal thought, in which his talent at drawing portraits, with a 
mixture of the serious and the comic, is most happily dis- 
played. 



POEMS 



VERSES 

on the 

DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH. 



EXTRACT FROM A POEM 

WRITTEN BY COURTNEY MELMOTH, ESQ. 

ON THE DEATH OF EMINENT ENGLISH POETS. 

THE TEARS OF GENIUS. 

The village bell tolls out the note of death, 
And through the echoing air the length'ning sound, 
With dreadful pause, reverberating deep, 
Spreads the sad tidings o'er fair Auburn's vale. 
There, to enjoy the scenes her bard had praised 
In all the sweet simplicity of song, 
Genius, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat, 
And herded jocund with the harmless swains ; 
But when she heard the fate-foreboding knell, 
With startled step, precipitate and swift, 
And look pathetic, full of dire presage, 
The church-way walk beside the neighb'ring green, 
Sorrowing she sought ; and there, in black array, 
Borne on the shoulders of the swains he loved, 
She saw the boast of Auburn moved along. 



56 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

Touch'd at the view, her pensive breast she struck, 

And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs, 

With leaning slope and branch irregular, 

O'er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane. 

The briar-bound grave shadowing with funeral gloom, 

Forlorn she hied; and there the crowding woe 

(SwelPd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought, 

Big ran the drops from her maternal eye, 

East broke the bosom-sorrow from her heart, 

And pale Distress sat sickly on her cheek, 

As thus her plaintive Elegy began : — 

"And must my children all expire ? 

Shall none be left to strike the lyre ? 

Courts Death alone a learned prize ? 

Falls his shafts only on the wise ? 

Can no fit marks on earth be found, 

From useless thousands swarming round ? 

What crowding ciphers cram the land, 

What hosts of victims, at command ! 

Yet shall the ingenious drop alone? 

Shall Science grace the tyrant's throne ? 

Thou murd'rer of the tuneful train 

I charge thee with my children slain ! 
Scarce has the sun thrice urged his annual tour, 
Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power. 

Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art, 

And struck a muse with every clart; 
Bard after bard obey'd thy slaughtering call, 
Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall. 

Then let a widow'd mother pay 

The tribute of a parting lay; 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 57 

Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain, 
And speak aloud her feelings and her pain ! 
'And first, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 

And first, farewell to thee, my son,' she cried, 
Long for thy sake the peasant's tear shall flow, 
And many a virgin bosom heave with woe ; 
For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene, 
And every pastime perish on the green ; 
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale, 
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale, 
No more shall Mirth each rustic sport inspire, 
But every frolic, every feat, shall tire. 
No more the evening gambol shall delight, 
Nor moonshine-revels crown the vacant night; 
But groups of villagers (each joy forgot) 
Shall form a sad assembly round the cot. 
Sweet bard, farewell ! — and farewell, Auburn's bliss, 
The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss : 
The evening warble Philomela made, 
The echoing forest, and the whispering shade, 
The winding brook, the. bleat of brute content, 
And the blithe voice that " whistled as it went: " 
These shall no longer charm the ploughman's care, 
But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair. 

' Goldsmith, adieu ; the " book-learn'd priest" for 
thee 
Shall now in vain possess his festive glee, 
The oft-heard jest in vain he shall reveal, 
For now, alas ! the jest he cannot feel. 
But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend, 
And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend ; 



58 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

The milkmaid shall reject the shepherd's song. 

And cease to carol as she toils along : 

All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day, 

When from her fields their pride was snatch'd away. 

And even the matron of the cressy lake, 

In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake, 

While all adown the furrows of her face 

Slow shall the lingering tears each other trace. 

'And, oh, my child ! severer woes remain 
To all the houseless and unshelter'd train ! 
Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest, 
And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast ; 
For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain, 
To all that wander, sorrow or complain : 
Dear to the learned, to the simple dear, 
For daily blessing mark'd thy virtuous year. 
The rich received a moral from thy head, 
And from thy heart the stranger found a bed 
Distress came always smiling from thy door ; 
For God had made thee agent to the poor, 
Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan, 
To grace at once the poet and the man.' 



EXTRACT FROM A MONODY. 

Dark as the night, which now in dunnest robe 
Ascends her zenith o'er the silent globe, 
Sad Melancholy wakes, a while to tread, 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 59 

With solemn step, the mansions of the dead : 

Led by her hand, o'er this yet recent shrine 

I sorrowing bend ; and here essay to twine 

The tributary wreath of laureat bloom, 

With artless hands, to deck a poet's tomb, — 

The tomb where Goldsmith sleeps. Fond hopes, adieu, 

No more your airy dreams shall mock my view ; 

Here will I learn ambition to control, 

And each aspiring passion of the soul : 

E'en now, methinks, his well-known voice I hear, 

When late he meditated flight from care, 

When, as imagination fondly hied 

To scenes of sweet retirement, thus he cried : — 

'Ye splendid fabrics, palaces, and towers, 
Where dissipation leads the giddy hours, 
Where pomp, disease, and knavery reside, 
And folly bends the knee to wealthy pride ; 
Where luxury's purveyors learn to rise, 
And worth, to want a prey, unfriended dies ; 
Where warbling eunuchs glitter in brocade, 
And hapless poets toil for scanty bread : 
Farewell ! to other scenes I turn my eyes, 
Embosom'd in the vale where Auburn lies — 
Deserted Auburn, those now ruin'd glades, 
Forlorn, yet ever dear and honor'd shades, 
There, though the hamlet boasts no smiling train, 
Nor sportful pastime circling on the plain, 
No needy villians prowl around for prey, 
No slanderers, no sycophants betray ; 
No gaudy foplings scornfully deride 
The swain, whose humble pipe is all his pride,— 



60 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

There will I fly to seek that soft repose, 
Which solitude centemplative bestows. 
Yet, oh, fond hope ! perchance there still remains 
One lingering friend behind, to bless the plains ; 
Some hermit of the dale, enshrined in ease, 
Long lost companion of my youthful days ; 
With whose sweet converse in his social bower, 
I oft may chide away some vacant hour ; 
To whose pure sympathy I may impart 
Each latent grief that labors at my heart, 
Whate'er I felt, and what I saw, relate, 
The shoals of luxury, the wrecks of state, — 
Those busy scenes, where science wakes in vain, 
In which I shared, ah ! ne'er to share again. 
But whence that pang ? does nature now rebel ? 
Why falters out my tongue the word farewell ? 
Ye friends ! who long have witness'd to my toil, 
And seen me ploughing in a thankless soil, 
Whose partial tenderness hush'd every pain, 
Whose approbation made my bosom vain, — 
'Tis you to whom my soul divided hies 
With fond regret, and half unwilling flies ; 
Sighs forth her parting wishes to the wind, 
And lingering leaves her better half behind. 
Can I forget the intercourse I shared, 
What friendship cherish'd, and what zeal endear d ? 
Alas ! remembrance still must turn to you, 
And, to my latest hour, protract the long adieu. 
Amid the woodlands, wheresoe'er I rove, 
The plain, or secret covert of the grove, 
Imagination shall supply her store 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 61 

Of painful bliss, and what she can restore ; 

Shall strew each lonely path with flow'rets gay, 

And wide as is her boundless empire stray; 

On eagle pinions traverse earth and skies, 

And bid the lost and distant objects rise. 

Here, where encircled o'er the sloping land 

Woods rise on woods, shall Aristotle stand ; 

Lyceum round the godlike man rejoice, 

And bow with reverence to wisdom's voice. 

There, spreading oaks shall arch the vaulted dome, 

The champion, there, of liberty and Rome, 

In Attic eloquence shall thunder laws, 

And uncorrupted senates shout applause. 

Not more ecstatic visions rapt the soul 

Of Numa, when to midnight grots he stole, 

And learnt his lore, from virtue's mouth refined, 

To fetter vice, and harmonize mankind. 

Now stretch'd at ease beside some fav'rite stream 

Of beauty and enchantment will I dream ; 

Elysium, seats of arts, and laurels won, 

The Graces three, and Japhet's # fabled son ; 

Whilst Angelo shall wave the mystic rod, 

And see a new creation wait his nod ; 

Prescribe his bounds to Time's remorseless power, 

And to my arms my absent friends restore ; 

Place me amidst the group, each well known face, 

The sons of science, lords of human race ; 

And as oblivion sinks at his command, 

Nature shall rise more finish'd from his hand. 

* Prometheus. 

6 



62 COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

Thus some magician, fraught with potent skill, 
Transforms and moulds each varied mass at will ; 
Calls animated forms of wondrous birth, 
Cadmean offspring, from the teeming earth, 
Unceres the ponderous tombs, the realms of night, 
And calls their cold inhabitants to light ; 
Or, as he traverses a dreary scene, 
Bids every sweet of nature there convene, 
Huge mountains skirted round with wavy woods, 
The shrub-deck'd lawns, and silver-sprinkled floods. 
Whilst flow'rets spring around the smiling land, 
And follow on the traces of his wand. 

' Such prospects, lovely Auburn ! then, be thine, 
And what thou canst of bliss impart be mine ; 
Amid thy humble shades, in tranquil ease, 
Grant me to pass the remnant of my days. 
Unfetter'd from the toil of wretched gain, 
My raptured muse shall pour her noblest strain, 
Within her native bowers the notes prolong, 
And, grateful, meditate her latest song. 
Thus, as adown the slope of life I bend, 
And move, resign'd, to meet my latter end, 
Each worldly wish, each worldly care repress'd, 
A self-approving heart alone possess'd, 
Content, to bounteous Heaven I'll leave the rest.' 

Thus spoke the bard : but not one friendly power 
Wish nod assentive crown'd the parting hour ; 
No eastern meteor glared beneath the sky, 
No dextral omen : Nature heaved a sigh 
Prophetic of the dire, impending blow, 
The presage of her loss, and Britain's woe. 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 63 

Already portion'd, unrelenting fate 

Had made a pause upon the nuniber'd date ; 

Behind stood Death, too horrible for sight, 

In darkness clad, expectant, pruned for flight ; 

Pleased at the word, the shapeless monster sped, 

On eager message to the humble shed, 

Where, wrapt by soft poetic visions round, 

Sweet slumbering, Fancy's darling son he found. 

At his approach the silken pinion'd train, 

Affrighted, mount aloft, and quit the brain, 

Which late they fann'd. Now other scenes than dales 

Of woody pride, succeed, or flowery vales : 

As when a sndden tempest veils the sky, 

Before serene, and streaming lightnings fly, 

The prospect shifts, and pitchy volumes roll 

Along the drear expanse, from pole to pole ; 

Terrific horrors all the void invest, 

Whilst the arch spectre issues forth confest. 

The Bard beholds him beckon to the tomb 

Of yawning night, eternity's dread womb ; 

In vain attempts to fly, th' impassive air 

Retards his steps, and yields him to despair ; 

He feels a gripe that thrills through every vein, 

And panting struggles in the fatal chain. 

Here paused the fell destroyer, to survey 

The pride, the boast of man, his destined prey ; 

Prepared to strike, he pois'd aloft the dart, 

And plunged the steel in Virtue's bleeding heart ; 

Abhorrent, back the springs of life rebound, 

And leave on Nature s face a ghastly wound, 

A wound enroll'd among Britannia's woes, 



64: COMMENDATORY VERSES. 

That ages yet to follow cannot close. 

Goldsmith ! how shall Sorrow now essay 
To murmur out her slow, incondite lay ? 
In what sad accents mourn the luckless hour, 
That yielded thee to unrelenting power ; 
Thee, the proud boast of all the tuneful train 
That sweep the lyre, or swell the polish'd strain ? 
Much honored Bard ! if my untutor'd verse 
Could pay a tribute worthy of thy hearse, 
With fearless hands I'd build the fane of praise, 
And boldly strew the never-fading bays. 
But, ah ! with thee my guardian genius fled, 
And pillow'd in thy tomb his silent head : 
Pain'd Memory alone behind remains, 
And pensive stalks the solitary plains, 
Rich in her sorrows ; honors without art 
She pays in tears redundant from the heart. 
And say, what boots it o'er thy hallow'd dust 
To heap the graven pile, or laurell'd bust ; 
Since by thy hands, already raised on high, 
We see a fabric tow'ring to the sky ; 
Where, hand in hand with Time, the sacred lore 
Shall travel on, till Nature is no more ? 



LINES BY W. WOTTY. 

Adieu, sweet Bard ! to each fine feeling true, 
Thy virtues many, and thy foibles few,— 



COMMENDATORY VERSES. 65 

These form'd to charm e'en vicious minds, and these 
With harmless mirth the social soul to please. 
Another's woe thy heart could always melt ; 
None gave more free, for none more deeply felt. 
Sweet Bard, adieu ! thy own harmonious lays 
Have sculptured out thy monument of praise. 
Yes, these survive to Time's remotest day ; 
While drops the bust, and boastful tombs decay. 
Reader, if number'd in the Muse's train, 
Go, tune the lyre, and imitate his strain ; 
But, if no poet thou, reverse the plan, 
Depart in peace, and imitate the man. 



THE TRAYELLEK; 

OR, 

A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY. 



DEDICATION. 

TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. 

Dear Sir, — I am sensible that the friendship between us 
can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedica- 
tion ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to prefix your 
name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your 
own. But as a part of this poem was formerly written to you 
from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be on- 
ly inscribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many 
parts of it, when the reader understands, that it is addressed 
to a man who, despising fame and fortune, has retired early 
to happiness and obscurity, with an income of forty pounds 
a-year. 

I now perceive, my dear brother, the wisdom of your hum- 
ble choice. You have entered upon a sacred office, where 
the harvest is great, and the laborers are but few ; while you 
have left the field of ambition, wbere the laborers are many 
and the harvest not worth carrying away. But of all kinds 
of ambition — what from the refinement of the times, from 



THE TRAVELLER. 67 

different systems of criticism, and from the divisions of party 
— that which pursues political fame is the wildest. 

Poetry makes a principal amusement among unpolished 
nations ; but in a country verging to the extremes of refine- 
ment, painting and music come in for a share. As these offer 
the feeble mind a less laborious entertainment, they at first 
rival poetry, and at length supplant her ; they engross all 
that favor once shown to her, and though but younger sisters, 
seize upon the elder's birthright. 

Yet, however this art may be neglected by the powerful, 
it is still in greater danger from the mistaken efforts of the 
learned to improve it. What criticisms have we not heard 
of late in favor of blank verse and Pindaric odes, choruses, 
anapests and iambics, alliterative care and happy negligence ! 
Every absurdity has now a champion to defend it ; and as he 
is generally much in the wrong, so he has always much to 
say ; for error is ever talkative. 

But there is an enemy to this art still more dangerous, — 
I mean party. Party entirely distorts the judgment, and des- 
troys the taste. When the mind is once infected with this 
disease, it can only find pleasure in what contributes to in- 
crease the distemper. Like the tiger, that seldom desists 
from pursuing man after having once prayed upon human 
flesh, the reader, who has once gratified his appetite with cal- 
umny, makes ever after the most agreeable feast upon mur- 
dered reputation. Such readers generally admire some half 
witted thing, who wants to be thought a bold man, having 
lost the character of a wise one. Him they dignify with the 
name of poet ; his tawdy lampoons are called satires ; his 
turbulence is said to be force, and his frenzy fire. 

What reception a poem may find, which has neither abuse 



68 THE TRAVELLER. 

party, nor blank verse to support it, I cannot tell, nor am I 
solicitous to know. My aims are riglit. Without espousing 
the cause of any party, I have attempted to moderate the 
rage of all. I have endeavored to shew that there may be 
equal happiness in states that are differently governed from 
our own ; that every state has a particular principle of happi- 
ness, and that this principle in each may be carried to a mis- 
chievous excess. There are few can judge better than your- 
self how far these positions are illustrated in this poem. I am, 
dear Sir, your most affectionate brother, 

Oliver Goldsmith. 



THE TEAVELLEE. 



Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po, 
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door^ 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A. weary waste expanding to the skies : 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart untravell'd fondly turns to thee ; 
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints attend ! 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening fire ! 
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair ! 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ! 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good ! 



70 THE TRAVELLER. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care ; 
Impell'd, with steps unceasing, to pursue 
Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view 
That like the circle bounding earth and skies 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies : 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 
E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And, placed on high above the storm's career, 
Look downward where a hundred realms appear 
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pridfc. 

When thus Creation's charms around combine, 
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine ? 
Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ? 
Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 
These little things are great to little man ; 
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind 
Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crown'd ; 
Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round ; 
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale ; 
For me your tributary stores combine, 
Creation's heir, the world — the world is mine ! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 



THE TRAVELLER. 71 

Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still. 

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise, 

Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies 

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 

To see the sum of human bliss so small : 

And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find 

Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest, 

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot below 

"Who can direct, when all pretend to know? 

The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 

Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 

Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 

And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 

The naked negro, panting at the Line, 

Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 

Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 

And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. 

Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam, 

His first, best country, ever is at home. 

And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 

And estimate the blessings which they share, 

Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find 

An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 

As different good, by art or nature given, 

To different nations makes their blessings even. 

Nature, a mother kind alike to all, 
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call ; 
With food as well the peasant is supplied 
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side. 



72 THE TRAVELLER. 

And though the rocky-crested summits frown, 

These rocks by custom turn to beds of down, 

From art more various are the blessings sent,— 

Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content. 

Yet these each other's power so strong contest, 

That either seems destructive of the rest. 

Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails, 

And honor sinks, where commerce long prevails. 

Hence every state, to one loved blessing prone, 

Conforms and models life to that alone. 

Each to the favorite happiness attends, 

And spurns the plan that aims at other ends ; 

Till carried to excess in each domain, 

This Favorite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it lies , 
Here, for a while, my proper cares resign'd, 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind ; 
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. 

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the summer, Italy extends ; 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast. 
The sons of Italy were surely blest: 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground ; 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 



THE TRAVELLER. 73 

Whose bright succession decks the varied year, 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die, 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, 
And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue ; 
And e'en in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind : 
For wealth was theirs ; not far removed the date, 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the state. 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long fall'n column sought the skies ; 
The canvas glow'd beyond e'en nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form : 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail ; 
While nought remain'd, of all that riches gave, 
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave : 
And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride ; 
7 



74 THE TRAVELLER. 

From these the feeble heart and long fall'n mind 

An easy compensation seem to find. 

Here may be seen in bloodless pomp array'd, 

The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade 

Processions form'd for piety and love, 

A mistress or a saint in every grove. 

By sports like these are all their cares beguil'd ; 

The sports of children satisfy the child ; 

Each nobler aim repress'd by long control 

Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 

While low delights succeeding fast behind, 

In happier meanness occupy the mind ; 

As in those dooms where Cassars once bore sway, 

Defaced by time, and tottering in decay, 

There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 

The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 

And, wondering man could want the larger pile, 

Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them ! turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race display, 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread : 
No product here the barren hills afford, 
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small, 



THE TRAVELLER. 75 

He sees his little lot the lot of all ; 

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 

To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 

To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 

But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 

Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 

Cheerful, at morn, he wakes from short repose, 

Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 

With patient angle trolls the finny deep, 

Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the steep ; 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way 

And drags the struggling savage into day. 

At night returning, every labor sped, 

He sits him down the monarch of the shed ; 

Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys 

His children's looks that brighten to the blaze, 

Whde his loved partner, boastful of her hoard, 

Displays her cleanly platter on the board ; 

And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, 

With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart, 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies. 
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, 
And dear that hill that lifts him to the storms i 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, 
So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 



76 THE TRAVELLER. 

Such are the charms to barren states assign'd, 
Their wants but few, their wishes all confined ; 
Yet let them only share the praises due, — 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; 
For every want that stimulates the breast, 
Becomes a source of £>leasure when redrest. 
Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies; 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, 
Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame, 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Nor quench'd by want, nor fann'd by strong desire 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a-year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow, — 
Their morals, like their jjleasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son 
Unalter'd, unimproved the manners run ; 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's breast 
May sit like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, — such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the 

way — 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, 



THE TRAVELLER. 77 

I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 

Gay, sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 

Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, 

How often have I led thy sportive choir, 

"With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring Loire ' 

Where shading elms along the margin grew, 

And freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr flew ; 

And hapty, though my harsh touch flatt'ring still, 

But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill ; 

Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, 

And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 

Alike all ages : dames of ancient days 

Have led their children through the mirthful maze ; 

And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 

Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three score. 

So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away : 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or e'en imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; ■ 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise : 
They please, are pleased ; they give to get esteem ; 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. 

But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought : 
7* 



78 THE TRAVELLER. 

And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence Ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; 
Here Vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; 
Here beggar Pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a-year ; 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws. 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 
Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 
Methinks her patient sons before me stand, 
Where the broad ocean leans against the land, 
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore ; 
While the pent Ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile ; 
The slow canal, the yellow-blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, 
A new creation rescued from his reign. 

Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from opulence that springs, 



, THE TRAVELLER. 79 

With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, 

Are here display'd. Their much-loved wealth imparts 

Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 

But view them closer, craft and fraud appear ; 

Even liberty itself is barter'd here ; 

At gold's superior charms all freedom flies, 

The needy sell it, and the rich man buys. 

A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 

Here wretches seek dishonorable graves, 

And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 

Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

Heavens ; how unlike their Belgic sires of old ! 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, 
War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 
There all around the gentlest breezes stray, 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there combined, 
Extremes are only in the master's mind! 
Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great, 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by : 
Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's hand, 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagined right above control, — 



80 THE TRAVELLER. f 

While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, Freedom, thine the blessings pictured here, 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and endear ! 
Too blest indeed were such without alloy ; 
But, fostered e'en by Freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high, 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie ; 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone, 
All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown ; 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repell'd ; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Represt ambition struggles round her shore ; 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motion stop, or frenzy fire the wheels. 
Nor this the worst. As Nature's ties decay, 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when stript of all her charms, 
The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 
Where noble stems transmit the patriot flame, 
Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote for fame, 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. 

But think not, thus when Freedom's ills I state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great : 
Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, 



THE TRAVELLER. 81 

Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair Freedom, taught alike to feel 
The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel; 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favor's fostering sun — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! 
( only would repress them to secure : 
For just experience tells, in every soil, 
That those that think must govern those that toil ; 
And all that Freedom's highest aims can reach, 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion'd grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh, then, how blind to all that truth requires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warms : 
But when contending chiefs blockade the throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their own ; 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves are free, 
Each wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law ; 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations roam, 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home, — 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear off reserve, and bear my swelling heart ! 
Till, half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
[ fly from petty tyrants to the throne.. 

Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful hour, 
When first ambition struck at regal power j 



82 THE TRAVELLER. 

And thus, polluting honor in its source, 

Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. 

Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, 

Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 

Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 

Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste ? 

Seen Opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 

Lead stern Depopulation in her train, 

And over fields, where scatter'd hamlets rose, 

In barren, solitary pomp repose ? 

Have we not seen, at Pleasure's lordly call, 

The smiling, long-frequented village fall ? 

Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 

The modest matron, and the blushing maid, 

Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 

To traverse climes beyond the western main, 

Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 

And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 

E'en now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays 
Through tangled forests, and through dangerous ways, 
Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise, 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 
Vain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind : 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and repose, 



THE TRAVELLER. 83 

To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In every government, though terrors reign, 
Though tyrant kings, or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or cure ? 
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find: 
With secret course which no loud storms annoy, 
Grlides the smooth current of domestic joy. 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Luke's iron crown, and Damiens bed of steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely known, 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. 



DESEKTED VILLAGE. 



TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS. 

Dear Sir. — I can have no expectations, in an address of 
this kind, either to add to your reputation, or to establish 
my own. You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I 
am ignorant of that art in which you are said to excel : and 
I may lose much by the severity of your j udgment, as few 
have a juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, 
therefore, aside, to which I never paid much attention, I 
must be indulged at present in following my affections. The 
only dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I 
loved him better than most other men. He is since dead. 
Permit me to inscribe this Poem to you. 

How far you may be pleased with the versification and 
mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend to 
inquire ; but I know you will object (and, indeed, several of 
our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that the 
depopulation it deplores is no where to be seen, and the dis- 
orders it laments are only to be found iu the poet's own im- 
agination. To this I can scarcely make any other answer, 
than that I sincerely believe what I have written ; that I 
have taken all possible pains, in my country excursions, for 
these four or five years past, to be certain of what I allege, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 85 

and that all my views and inquiries have led me to believe 
those miseries real, which I here attempt to display. But 
this is not the place to enter into an inquiry whether the 
country be depopulating or not : the discussion would take 
up much room, and I should prove myself, at best, an indif- 
ferent politician, to tire the reader with a long preface, when 
I want his unfatigued attention to a long poem. 

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh 
against the increase of our luxuries ; and here also I expect 
the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty or 
thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider luxury 
as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all the wis- 
dom of antiquity in that particular as erroneous. Still, how- 
ever, I must remain a professed ancient on that head, and 
continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to states by which 
so many vices are introduced, and so many kingdoms have 
been undone. Indeed, so much has been poured out of late 
on the other side of the question, that merely for the sake 
of novelty and variety, one would sometimes wish to be in 
the right. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Tonr sincere friend, and ardent admirer, 

Oliver G-oldsmitk, 



THE DESEETED VILLAGE.* 



Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheer" d the laboring swain, 

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 

And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd : 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 

How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 

Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 

How often have I paused on every charm, 

The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 

The decent church that topt the neighboring hill, 

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 

How often have I blest the coming day, 



* The locality of this poem is supposed to be Lissoy, near Ballyma- 
ban, where the poet's brother Henry had his living. As usual in 
such cases, the place afterwards became the fashionable resort of 
poetical pilgrims, and paid the customary penalty of furnishing 
relics for the curious. The hawthorn bush has been converted into 
snuff-boxes, and now adorns the cabinets of poetical virtuosi. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 87 

When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 

And all the village train, from labor free, 

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ; 

While many a pastime circled in the shade, 

The young contending as the old survey'd ; 

And many a gambol frolic' d o'er the ground, 

And slights of art and feats of strength went round ; 

And still as each repeated pleasure tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 

By holding out to tire each other down ; 

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 

While secret laughter titter'd round the place ; 

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove : 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports, like 

these 
With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please ; 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed. 
These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ! 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more the grassy brook reflects the day, 
But, chocked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing Hies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries : 



88 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates, aud men decay ; 
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man : 
For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health, 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 
But times are alter'd ; trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; 
Along the lawn, whei*e scatter'd hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brighten'd all the green, — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 89 

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes — for pride attends us still — 
Amidst the swains to shew my book-learn'd skill, 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw ; 
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew. 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return and die at home at last. 

blest retirement, friend to life's decline, 
Retreat from cares, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ; 
8* 



90 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ; 
There, as I past with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came soft'd from below ; 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung, 
The sober herd that low'd to meet their young ; 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school -, 
The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made. . 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread, 
But all the bloomy flush of life is fled, 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn ; 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain. 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 91 

The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 

A man he was to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a-year : 

Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, his place 

Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, 

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour ; 

Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, 

More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 

His house was known to all the vagrant train, 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 

The long-remember 'd beggar was his guest, 

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ; 

The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 

Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd ; 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away, 

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done, 

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe : 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side ; 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt, for all ; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 



92 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorn' d the venerable place ; 
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway, 
And fools who came to scoff remain'd to j>ray. 
The service past, around the pious man, 
With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
E'en children follow'd, with endearing wile, 
And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd ; 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distress'd ; 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, 
With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay, 
There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace 
The day^s disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 93 

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd. 

Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew, 
'T was certain he could write and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, 
And e'en the story ran — that he could gauge : 
In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 
For e'en though vanquish'd, he could argue still; 
While words of learned length and thund'ring sound, 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 
But past is all his fame. The very spot 
Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired, 
Where graybeard mirth, and smiling toil, retired, 
Where village statesmen talk'd with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place : 
The white-wash'd wall, the nicely-sanded floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of draws by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose : 



94 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The hearth, except when winter chill'd the day, 
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ; 
"While broken tea cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendors ! Could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart: 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair, 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his pond'rous strength, and learn to hear. 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 95 

The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy ? 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, 
'T is yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards, e'en beyond the miser's wish, abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains ; this wealth is but a name 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss : the man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth, 
Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary sports are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : — 
While thus the land, adorn 'd. for pleasure all, 
In barren splendor feebly waits its fall. 

As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress supplies, 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are past — for charms we 

frail — 
When time advances, and when lovers fail, 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress : 



96 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd : 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd : 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While scourged by famine from the smiling land, 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 

Where, then, ah ! where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd. 
He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, 
And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. 

If to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 
To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ; 
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' wo. 
Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 
There the pale artist plies his sickly trade ; 
Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 
There the black gibbet glooms beside the way. 
The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 
Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous train ; 
Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, 
The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 
Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ! 
Sure these denote one universal joy ! 
Are these thy serious thoughts ? — Ah, turn thine eyes 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 97 

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies .* 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty best, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distrest : 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn : 

Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled, 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

"With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheel, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train, 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread ! 

Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, 
Where half the convex-world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, 
Where wild Altama* murmurs to their wo. 
Far different there from all that charm'd before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore ; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 

* The Altama (or Altamaha) is a river in the province of Georgia, 
United States. 

9 



98 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men, more murd'rous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloom'd that parting da) 
That call'd them from their native walks away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their lastj 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main ; 
And shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep! 
The good old sire the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' wo ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave : 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms : 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, 
And blest the cot where every pleasure rose, 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear, 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of g-rief. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 99 

O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank unwiedy wo ; 
Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round, 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural Virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move a melancholy band, 
Pass from the shore and darken all the strand. 
Contented Toil, and hospitable Care, 
And kind connubial Tenderness, are there ; 
And Piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady Loyalty, and faithful Love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 
Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, 

L.0FC. 



100 THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell ; and oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambaniarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength possest, 
Though very poor, may still be very blest : 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THE HERMIT, 



A BALLAD. 



The following letter, addressed to the printer of the St. James's 
Chronicle, appeared in that paper in June, 1767. 

Sin, — As there is nothing I dislike so much as newspaper 
controversy, particularly upon trifles, permit me to be as con- 
cise as possible in informing a correspondent of yours, that I 
recommended Blainville's Travels, because I thought the 
book was a good one, and I think so still. I said I was told 
by the bookseller that it was then first published, but in that 
it seems I was misinformed, and my reading was not exten- 
sive enough to set me right. 

Another correspondent of yours accuses me of having tak- 
en a ballad I published some time ago, from one* by the in- 
genious Mr. Percy. I do not think there is any great resem- 
blance between the two pieces in question. If there be any his 
ballad is taken from mine. I read it to Mr. Percy some years 
ago ; and he (as we both considered these things as trifles at 
best) told me with his usual good humor the next time I saw 
him, that he had taken my plan to form the fragments of Shak- 
speare into a ballad of his own. He then read me his little Cen- 

* Friar of Orders Gray. Reliques of Ancient Poetry, vol. i, book 2, 
No. 17. 

9* 



102 THE HERMIT. 

to, if I may so call it, and I highly approved it. Such petty an 
ecdotes as these are scarcely worth printing ; and, were it not 
for the busy disposition of some of ycur correspondents, the 
public should never have known that he owe?' me the hint 
of his ballad, or that I am obliged to his friendship and learning 
for communications of a much more irnportatf t nature. — I 
am, Sir, yours, etc., Oliver C oldsmith. 



THE HERMIT. 



* Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow, 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem length'ning as I go.' 

' Forbear, my son,' the Hermit cries, 
' To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

' Here to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

' Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate'er my cell bestows ; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 



104: THE HERMIT. 

' No flocks that range the valley free, 
To slaughter I condemn ; 

Taught by that Power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them ; 

' But from the mountain's grassy side, 
A guiltless feast I bring; 

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
And water from the spring. 

' Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego 
All earth-born cares are wrong : 

Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long.' 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends. 

His gentle accents fell : 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in the wilderness obscure, 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master's care ; 

The wicket, opening with a latch, 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
And cheer'd his pensive guest : 



THE HERMIT. 105 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gaily press'd and smiled 5 
And, skilFd in legendary lore, 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries, 
The criket chirrups on the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 

With answering care oppress'd; 
And, ' Whence, unhappy youth,' he cried, 

' The sorrows of thy breast ? 

' From better habitations spurn'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 

Or unregarded love ? 

'Alas ! the joys that fortune brings, 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry thinge, 

More trifling still than they. 

And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

But leaves the wretch to weep ? 



106 THE HERMIT. 

'And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle's nest. 

' For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex,' he said ; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o'er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confess'd, 

A maid in all her charms. 

And, 'Ah ! forgive a stranger rude — 
A wretch forlorn,' she cried ; 

'Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where heaven and you reside. 

' But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray ; 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

' My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he : 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 
He had but only me. 



iHE HERMIT. 



10^ 



4 To win me from his tender arms, 

Unnumber'd suitors came, 
Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt, or feign'd, a name. 

' Each hour a mercenary crowd 

"With richest proffers strove ; 
Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, 

But never talk'd of love. 

' In humble, simplest habit clad, 
No wealtb nor power had he ; 

"Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 

And when, beside me in the dale, 

He caroll'd lays of love, 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 

And music to the grove.* 

' The blossom opening to the day, 
The dews of heaven refined, 
Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

' The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine ; 

Their charms were his, but, wo to me, 
Their constancy was mine. 

*This stanza was preserved by Richard Archdale, Esq., a mem- 
. ber of the Irish Parliament, to whom it was given by Goldsmith, 
and was first inserted after the author's death. 



j 

108 THE HERMIT. 



' For still I tried each fickle art, 

Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 

I triumph'd in his pain ; 

' Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 

He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

' But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
And well my life shall pay ; 

I'll seek the solitude he sought, 
And stretch me where he lay. 

And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 

I'll lay me down and die ; 
'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.' 

' Forbid it, Heaven ! ' the Hermit cried, 
And clasp'd her to his breast ; 

The wondering fair one turn'd to chide - 
'Twas Edwin's self that press'd ! 

'Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 

Restored to love and thee. 

' Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 

And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part, 

My life — my all that 's mine. 



THE HERMIT. 109 

No, never from this hour to part 

We'll live and love so true, 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart 

Shall break thy Edwin's too. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.* 

A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLAEE. 

Thanks, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter 
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter. 
The haunch was a picture for painters to study, 
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; 
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help 

regretting 
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating : 
I had thoughts, m my chamber to place it in view 
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu ; 
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, 
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show ; 
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, 
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in. 
But hold —let me pause — don't I hear you pronounce, 
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce ? 
Well, suppose it a bounce — sure a poet may try, 
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly. 
But, my lord, it's no bounce : I protest, in my turn, 

*The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated 
from Boileau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from 
Horace, Lil. ii. Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Regnier, 
Sat. 10. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. Ill 

It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.* 

To go on with my tale : a I gazed on the haunch, 

I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch, 

So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest, 

To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best. 

Of the neck and the breast I had nest to dispose — 

'T was a neck and a breast that might rival Munro's ; 

But in parting with these I was juizzled again, 

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the 

when. 
There's H — d, and C— y, and H— rth, and H— ff, 
I think they love venison — I know they love beef ; 
There's my countryman, Higgins — oh! let him alone 
For making a blunder, or picking a bone : 
But, hang it ! to poets who seldom can eat, 
Your very good mutton's a very good treat ; 
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt ; 
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt. 

While thus I debated, in reverie centred, 
An acquaintance — a friend, as he call'd himself — 

enter'd ; 
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, 
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me, — 
' What have you got here ? — Why, this is good eating 
Your own, I suppose — or is it in waiting ? ' 
' Why, whose should it be ? ' cried I, with a flounce, 
' I get these things often' — but that was a bounce : 
' Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, 
Are pleased to be kind — but I hate ostentation.' . 

*Lord Clare's nephew. 



112 THE HAUNCH OF VENI90N. 

'If that be the case, then,' cried he, very gay, 
' I'm glad I have taken this house in my way : 
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me ; 
No words — 1 insist on't — precisely at three ; 
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, — all the wits will be 

there : 
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. 
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner, 
We wanted this vension to make out a dinner. 
What say you — a pasty ? it shall, and it must, 
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. 
Here, porter — this venison with me to Mile-end : 
No stirring, I beg — my dear friend, — my dear friend.' 
Thus, snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, 
And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. 

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, 
Amd ' nobody with me at sea but myself ; ' * 
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, 
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, 
Were things that I never disliked in my life, 
Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. 
So next day, in due splendour to make my approach, 
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. 

When come to the place where we all were to dine, 
(A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine), 
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb 
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come ; 
' For I knew it,' he cried, 'both eternally fail, 



* See the letters that passed between his Royal Highness Henry 
Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor. 12mo. 1769. 



THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 113 

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale: * 
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party 
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. 
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew : 
They're both of them merry, and authors like you : 
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ; 
Some thinks he writes Cinna — he owns to Panurge.' 
"While thus he described them, by trade and by name, 
They enter'd, and dinner was served as they came. 

At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen ; 
At the bottom, was tripe in a swinging tureen ; 
At the sides, there was spinage, and pudding made hot ; 
In the middle, a place where the pasty — was not. 
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, 
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian ; 
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, 
While the bacon and liver went merrily round: 
But what vex'd me most was that d 'd Scottish 

rogue, 
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his 

brogue ; 
And, ' Madam,' quoth he, ' may this bit be my poison, 
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on : 
Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, 
But I've ate of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.' 
' The tripe ! ' quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, 
' I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week : 
I like these here dinners, so pretty and small ; 



* An eminent London brewer, M. P., for the borough of South- 
wark, at whose table Dr. Johnson was a freqxient guest. 
10* 



114 THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. 

But your friend. there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all. 

' O ho ! ' quoth my friend, ' he'll come on in a trice. 

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice : 

There's a pasty.' — ' A pasty ! ' repeated the Jew, 

' I don't care if I keep a corner for't too.' 

' What, the deil, mon, a pasty ! ' re-echoed the Scot, 

' Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.' 

' We'll all keep a corner,' the lady cried out ; 

< We'll all keep a corner,' was echo'd about. 

While thus we resolved, and the pasty delay'd, 

With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid : 

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, 

Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night 

But we quickly found out — for who could mistake 

her ? — 
That she came with some terrible news from the 

baker : 
And so it fell out ; for that negligent sloven 
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven. 
Sad Philomel thus — but let similes drop — 
And now that I think on't, the story may stop. 

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplaced, 
To send such good verses to one of your taste ; 
You've got an odd something — a kind of discerning, 
A relish — a taste — sicken'd over by learning; 
At least it's your temper, as very well known, 
That you think very slightly of all that's your own, 
So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, 
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this. 



RETALIATION 



Dr. Goldsmith and some of his friends occasionally dined at the 
St. James's Coffee-house. One day, it "was proposed to write epi- 
taj>hs on him. His country, dialect, and person, furnished sub- 
jects of witticism. He was called on for Retaliation, and, at their 
next meeting, produced the following poem. 

Of old, when Scarron his companion invited, 
Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united ; 
If our landlord* supplies us with beef and with fish, 
Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best 

dish : 
Our Deanf shall be venison, just fresh from the plains ; 
Our Burke % shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains ; 
Our Will § shall be wild-fowl of excellent flavor, 
And Dick || with his pepper shall heighten the savor ; 

* The master of the St. James's Coffee-house, where the Doctor 
and the friends he has characterized in this poem, occasionally 
dined. 

t Doctor Barnard, Dean of Derry, in Ireland, afterwards Bishop 
of Killaloe. 

X The Right Hon. Edmund Burke. 

§ Mr. William Burke, formerly secretary to General Conway and 
member for Bedwin. 

|| Mr. Kichard Burke, collector of Granada. 



116 RETALIATION. 

Our Cumberland's* sweetbread its place shall obtain, 
And Douglas! is pudding, substantial and plain ; 
Our Grarrick's $ a salad, for in him we see 
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree : 
To make out the dinner, full certain I am, 
That Ridge § is anchovy, and Reynolds || is lamb ; 
That Hickey's 1[ a capon, and, by the same rule, 
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. 
At a dinner so various — at such a repast, 
"Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? 
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, 
Till all my coruj)anions sink under the table ; 
Then, with chaos and blunders eu circling my head. 
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. 

Here lies the good Dean, reunited to earth, 
Who mixed reason with pleasure, and wisdom with 

mirth : 
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt — 
At least, in six weeks I could not find 'em out ; 
Yet some have declared, and it can't be denied 'em, 
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. 



* Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of The West Indian, The Jew, 
and other dramatic -works. 

t Doctor Douglas, Canon of Windsor, and afterwards Bishop of 
Salisbury, was himself a native of Scotland, and obtained consider- 
able reputation by his detection of the forgeries of his countrymen, 
Lauder and Bower. 

X David Garrick, Esq. 

§ Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the Irish 
bar. 

|| Sir Joshua Reynolds. 

IT An eminent attorney. 



RETALIATION. 117 

Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, 
We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; 
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, 
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind ; 
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his 

throat, 
To persuade Tommy Townshend* to lend him a vote; 
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, 
And thought of convincing, while they thought of 

dining : | 
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit ; 
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; 
For a patriot, too cool ; for a drudge disobedient ; 
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. 
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, sir, 
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. 

Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint. 
While the owner n'er knew half the good that was in ! t : 
The pupil of impulse, it forced him along, 
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong ; 
Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, 
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home. 
Would you ask for his merits ? alas ! he had none ; 
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his own. 

* Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitclmrch, afterwards Lord 
Sydney. 

t Mr. Burke's speeches in Parliament, though distinguished by 
all the force of reasoning and eloquence of their highly-gifted 
author, were not always listened to with patience by his brother 
members, who not unfrequently took the opportunity of retiring 
to dinner when he rose to speak. To this circumstance, which 
procured for the orator the sobriquet of the Dinner Bell, allusion r.s 
here made. 



118 RETALIATION. 

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at ; 
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet ! 
What spirits were his ! what wit and what whim '. 
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb ! * 
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball 
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all ! 
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, 
That we wish'd him full ten times a-day at Old Nick. 
But missing his mirth and agreeable vein, 
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. 

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, 
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; 
A flattering painter, who made it his care 
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. 
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, 
And Comedy wonders at being so fine ; 
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, 
Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. 
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd, 
Of virtues and feelings, that Folly grows proud ; 
And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, 
Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their own. 
Say, where has our poet 'this malady caught ? 
Or wherefore his characters thus without fault ? 
Say, was it, that vainly directing his view 
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, 
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, 



*Mr. Richard Burke having slightly fractured an arm and a 
leg at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on these acci- 
dents, as a kind of retributive justice, for breaking jests upon 
other people. 



RETALIATION. 119 

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself ? 

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, 
The scourge of imposters, the terror of quacks : 
Come, all ye quack hards, and ye quacking divines, 
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines. 
When satire and censure encircled his throne, 
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own ; 
But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 
Our Dodds * shall be pious, our Kenricks f shall lec- 
ture ; 
Macpherson t write bombast, and call it a style ; 
Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile .- 
New Lauders§ and Bowers || the Tweed shall cross over, 
No countryman living their tricks to discover ; 
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, 
And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark, 

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, 

* The Rev. Dr. Dodd, who was executed for forgery. 

f Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the 
title of ' The School of Shakspeare.' He was a well-known writer, 
of prodigious versatility, and some talent. Dr. Johnson observed . 
of him, 'He is one of the many who have made themselves public, 
without making themselves known.' 

$ James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his style, 
wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 

§ William Lauder, who, by interpolating certain passages from 
the Adamus Exul of Grotius, with translations from Paradise Lost, 
endeavored to fix on Milton a charge of plagiarism from the modern 
Latin poets. Dr. Douglas detected and exposed this imposture, 
and extorted from the author a confession and apology. 

|| Archibald Bower, a Scottish Jesuit, and aiithor of a History of 
the Popes from St. Peter to Lambertini. Dr. Douglas convicted 
Bower of gross imposture, and totally destoyed the credit of his 
history. 



120 RETALIATION. 

An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man ; 

As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine, 

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line : 

Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, 

The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. 

Like an ill-judgiug beauty, his colors he spread, 

And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red. 

On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 

'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 

With no reason on earth to go out of his way, 

He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day : 

Though secure of our hearts yet confoundedly sick, 

If they were not his own by finessing and trick : 

He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, 

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them 

back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, 
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame ; 
Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, 
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. 
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfalls f so grave, 
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you 

gave ! 
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised, 
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised ! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, 
To act as an angel and mix with the skies : 

*Mr. Hugh Kelly, originally a staymaker, afterwards a newspa- 
per editor and dramatist, and latterly a barrister. 

f Mr. William Woodf all, printer of the Morning Chronicle. 



RETALIATION. 121 

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, 
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will ; 
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, 
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. 

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature, 
And slander itself must allow him good nature ; 
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ; 
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. 
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser ? 
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. 
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ? 
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. 
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, 
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no ! 
Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn ye : 
He was, could he help it ? a special attorney. 

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 
He has not left a wiser or better behind ; 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, 
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland : 
Still born to improve us in every part, 
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, 
When they judged without skill, he was still hard of 

hearing : 
When they talked of their Raphaels, Corregios, and 

stuff, 
He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff. 

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf as to be under the necessity of 
using an ear-trumpet in company. 
11 



122 RETALIATION. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher 
received the following epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord,* from a friend 
of the late Dr. Goldsmith. 

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can, 
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man : | 
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun ! 
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun ; 
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere, ; 
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear ; 
Who scatter'd around wit and humor at will ; 
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill : 
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free ; 
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he. 

What pity, alas ! that so liberal a mind 
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined ! 
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar, 
Yet content if ' the table he set in a roar : ' 
Whose talents to fill any station were fit, 
Yet happy if Woodfall % confess'd him a wit. 

Ye newspaper witlings, ye pert scribbling folks ! 
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ; 
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, 
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb ; 
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, 

*Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays. 

fMr. Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith 
used to say it was impossible to keep him company, without being 
infected with the itch of punning. 

JMr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser. 



RETALIATION. 123 

And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; 

Then strew all around it (you can do no less) 

Gross Readings, Ship News, and Mistakes of the Press.* 

Merry Whitefoord, farewell ! for thy sake I admit 
That a Scot may have humor, I had almost said wit ; 
This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 

Thou best-humor'd man with the worst-humor'd 
Muse. 



THE 

DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 



Secluded from domestic strife, 

Jack Book-worm led a college life ; 

A fellowship at twenty-five 

Made him the happiest man alive ; 

He drank his glass, and cracked his joke, 

And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 

Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 
Could any accident impair ? 
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? 

Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 
To ravage in a country town ! 
Or Flavia been content to stop 

* Mr. Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humoi> 
ous pieces iinder those titles in the Public Advertiser. 



124 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

At triumphs in a Fleet Street shop ! 

Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze ! 

Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 

Oh ! — but let exclamation cease, 

Her presence banished all his peace ; 

So with decorum all things carried, 

Miss f rown'd, and blush'd, and then was — married. 

Need we expose to vulgar sight 
The raptures of the bridal night ? 
Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 
Or draw the curtains closed around ? 
Let it suffice that each had charms : 
He clasped a goddess in his arms ; 
And though she felt his usage rough, 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honey-moon like lightning flew, 
The second brought its transports too ; 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss, 
The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss : 
But, when a twelvemonth j^assed away, 
Jack found his goddess made of clay ; 
Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
But still the worst remain'd behind, — 
That very face had robb'd her mind. 

Skill'd in no other arts was she, 
But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
And, just as humor rose or fell, 
By turns a slattern or a belle. 
'Tis true she dressed with modern grace, 
Half naked, at a ball or race ; 



THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 125 

But when at home, at board or bed, 

Five greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. 

Could so much beauty condescend 

To be a dull, domestic friend? 

Could any curtain-lectures bring 

To decency so fine a thing ! 

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting ; 

By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting. 

Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 

Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ; 

The squire and captain took their stations, 

And twenty other near relations : 

Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 

A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 

While all their hours were pass'd between 

Insulting repartee and spleen. 

Thus as her faults each day were known. 
He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
He fancies every vice she shews, 
Or thins her lips, or points her nose : 
Whenever rage or envy rise, 
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! 
He knows not how, but so it is, 
Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
And, though her fops are wondrous civil, 
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
As each a different way pursues, 
While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promised to hold them on for life, 
That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
11* 



126 THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 

Withers the beauty's transient flower, — 
Lo ! the small pox, with horrid glare, 
Levell'd its terrors at the fair ; 
And, rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
Reflected now a perfect fright : 
Each former ai*t she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
In vain she tries her paste and creams 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams ; 
Her country beaux and city cousins, 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
The squire himself was seen to yield, 
And e'en the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
Perceiving others fairly flown, 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old : 
"With modesty her cheeks are dyed, 
Humility displaces pride ; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean ; 
No more presuming on her sway, 
She learns good nature every day : 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



THE GIFT. 12? 

THE GIFT.* 

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 

Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake, 

Dear mercenary beauty, 
What annual offering shall I make 

Expressive of my duty ? 

My heart, a victim to thine eyes, 

Should I at once deliver, 
Say, would the angry fair one prize 

The gift, who slights the giver ? 

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy, 

My rivals give — and let 'em : 
If gems, or gold, impart a joy, 

I'll give them — when I get 'em. 

I'll give — but not the full-blown rose, 

Or rose-bud more in fashion ; 
Such short-lived offerings but disclose 

A transitory passion — 

I'll give thee something yet unpaid, 

Not less sincere than civil, — 
I'll give thee — ah ! too charming maid ! — 

I'll give thee — to the Devil ! 

* Imitated from Grecourt, a witty French poet. 



128 AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort, 
Give ear unto my song, 
And if you find it wondrous short, 
It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes ; 
The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This clog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain his private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wond'ring neighbors ran, 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 129 

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they lied : 

The man recover'd of the bite — 
The dog it was that died. 



THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.* 

IN IMITATATION OF DEAN SWIFT. 

Logicians have but ill defined 

As rational the human mind : 

Reason, they say, belongs to man, 

But let them prove it if they can. 

Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius, 

By ratiocinations specious, 

Have strove to prove with great precision, 

With definition and division, 

Homo est ratione preditum ; 

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ; 

And must in spite of them maintain, 

That man and all his ways are vain ; 

And that this boasted lord of nature 

Is both a weak and erring creature ; 



* This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as 
a genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has been reprinted in 
almost every edition of the Dean's works. Even Sir Walter Scott 
has inserted it -without anyremark in his edition of Swift's Works. 



130 THE LOGICIANS REFUTED. 

That instinct is a surer guide 

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride ; 

And that brute beasts are far before 'em — 

Deus est anima brutorum. 

Whoever knew an honest brute 

At law his neighbor prosecute, 

Bring action for assault and battery ? 

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery? 

O'er plains they ramble unconfmed, 

No politics disturb their mind ; 

They eat their meals, and take their sport, 

Nor know who's in or out at court : 

They never to the levee go 

To treat as dearest friend a foe : 

They never importune his grace, 

Nor ever cringe to men in place ; 

Nor undertake a dirty job, 

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.* 

Fraught with invective they ne'er go 

To folks at Paternoster Row : 

No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, 

No pickpockets, or poetasters, 

Are known to honest quadrupeds ; 

No single brute his fellow leads, 

Brutes never meet in bloody fray, 

Nor cut each other's throats for pay. 

Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape 

Comes nearest us in human shape: 

Like man, he imitates each fashion, 

* Sir Robert "Walpole. 



A NE>/ SIMILE. 131 

And malice is his ruling passion : 
But both in malice and grimaces, 
A courtier any ape surpasses. 
Behold him humblv crinomis'' wait 
Upon the minister of state ; 
View him soon after to inferiors 
Aping the conduct of superiors : 
He promises with equal air. 
And to perform takes equal care. 
He in his turn finds imitators ; 
At court the porters, laequey&, waiters, 
Their masters' raanu^rs still contract, 
And footmen, h,rds ana dukes can act. 
Thus at the cov,rt, both great aud small 
Behave alike, tor all ape all. 

A NEW SIMILE. 

IN THE MANSEK OF SWIFT. 

Long had I sought in vain to find 
A likeness for the scribbling kind — 
The modern scribbling kind, who write 
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite — 
Till reading — I forgot what clay on — 
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon, 
I think I met with something there 
To suit my purpose to a hair. 
But let us not proceed too furious, — 
First please to turn to god Mercurius ; 
You'll find him pictured at full length, 



132 a new sim:le. 

In book the second, page the tenth ; 
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, 
And now proceed we to our simile. 

Imprimis, pray observe his hat, 
Wings upon either side — mark that. 
Well ? what is it from thence we gather ? 
Why, these denote a brain of feather. 
A brain of feather ! very right ; 
With wit that's flighty, learning light ; 
Such as to modern bard's decreed : 
A just comparison — proceed. 

In the next place, his feet peruse, 
Wings grow again from both his shoes ; 
Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, 
And waft his godship through the air : 
And here my simile unites ; 
For in a modern poet's nights, 
I'm sure it may be justly said, 
His feet are useful as his head. 

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand, 
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand, 
By classic authors terrn'd caduceus, 
And highly famed for several uses : 
To wit, — most wondrously endued, 
No popy-water half so good ; 
For let folks only get a touch, 
Its soporific virtue's such, 
Though ne'er so much awake before,. 
That quickly they begin to snore ; 
Add, too, what certain writers tell. 

With this he drives men's souls to hell. 



A NEW SIMILE. 133 

Now, to apply, begin we then : — 
His wand's a modern author's pen ; 
The serpents round about it twin'd 
Denote him of the reptile kind, 
Denote the rage with which he writes, 
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites ; 
An equal semblance still to keep, 
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep ; 
This difference only, as the god 
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, 
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, 
Instead of others, damns himself. 

And here my simile almost tript, 
Yet grant a word by way of postscript. 
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing ; 
Well ! what of that? out with it — stealing 
In which all modern bards agree, 
Being each as great a thief as he. 
But e'en this deity's existence 
Shall lend my simile assistance : 
Our modern bards ! why, what a pox, 
Are they but senseless stones and blocks ? 

DESCRIPTION 



AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. 

Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, 
Invites each passing stranger that can pay ; 
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne, 

12 



134 DESCRIPTION OF A BED CHAMBER. 

Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane : 

There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 

The Muse found Scroggin stretched beneath a rug ; 

A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, 

That dimly show'd the state in which he lay ; 

The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ; 

The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; 

The royal game of goose was there in view, 

And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew ; 

The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, 

And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. 

The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire 

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : 

"With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored, 

And five crack'd tea-cups dress 'd the chimney board, 

A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, 

A cajD by night — a stocking all the day ! * 



A PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABEBITJS, A ROMAN 
KNIGHT, WHOM CiESAK FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 

[Preserved by Macrobius.] 

"What ! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ! 
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year, 
What in the name of dotage drives me here ? 



* The author has given, with a very slight alteration, a similar 
description of the alehouse in the Deserted Village. 



STANZAS. 135 

A time there was when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ; 
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear, 
With honest thrift I held my honor dear : 
But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honor is no more ; 
For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ; 
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys, 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
Here then at once I welcome every shame, 
And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame : 
No more my titles shall my children tell, 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well : 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honor ends. 



AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, 
MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 

Good people all, with one accord, 

Lament for Madam Blaize, 
Who never wanted a good word — 

From those who spoke her praise. 

The needy seldom pass'd her door, 

And always found her kind ; 
She freely lent to all the poor — 

Who left a pledge behind. 



136 STANZAS. 

She strove the neighborhood to please 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satin new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumber'd in her pew — 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 
By twenty beaux and more ; 

The king himself has follow'd her — 
When she has walk'd before. 

But now, her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all ; 

The doctors found, when she was dead — 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament in sorrow sore, 
For Kent Street well may say, 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more — 
She had not died to-day. 

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH 

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING. 

Sure, 'twas by Providence design'd, 

Rather in pity than in hate, 
That he should be, like Cupid, blind, 

To save him from Narcissus' fate. 



STANZAS. 137 

THE CLOWN'S REPLY. 

John Trott was desired by two witty peers 

To tell them the reason why asses had ears ; 

'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters, 

Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters ; 

Howe'er from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces — 

As I hope to be saved ! — without thinking on asses. 

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name. 

May speak our gratitude, but not his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way ? 

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 

And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 

The transitory breath of fame below : 

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise. 

While converts thank their poet in the skies. 

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* 

Here lies Ned Purdon, from misery freed, 
Who long was a bookseller's hack : 

He led such a damnable life in this world, 
I don't think he'll wish to come back. 

* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College. Dublin ; but 
having wasted his patrimony, he enlissted as a foot soldier. Grow- 
ing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and be- 
came a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's 
Henriade. 

12* 



138 STANZAS. 



STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. 

Amidst the clamor of exulting joys, 

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, 

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. 

O Wolfe ! * to thee a streaming flood of woe 
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear ; 

Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. 

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, 

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes : 

Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead ! 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. 

STANZAS ON WOMAN. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy ? 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 

To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 

* Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose, 
character he greatly admired. 



SONGS. 139 

A SONNET.* 

Weeping, murmuring, complaining, 

Lost to every gay delight, 
Myra, too sincere for feigning, 

Fears th' approaching bridal night. 

Yet why impair thy bright perfection, 
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ? 

Had Myra followed my direction, 
She long had wanted cause of fear. 

SONG. 

From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 

The wretch condemned wi\th life to part, 

Still, still on hope relies ; 
And every pang that rends the heart 

Bids expectation rise. 

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light, 

Adorns and cheers the way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SONG. 

From the Oratorio of the Captivity. 

O memory ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain, 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

; This sonnet is imitated from a French madrigal of St. Pavies* 



140 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing, 
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ; 

And he who wants each other blessing, 
In thee must ever find a foe. 



SONG. 

Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of She Stoops to Con 
quer, but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, who acted the part o\ 
Miss Hardcastle, could not sing. 

Ah me ! when shall I marry me ? 

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me ; 
He, fond youth, that could carry me, 

Offers to love, but means to deceive me. 

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner : 

Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. 

She that gives all to the false one jmrsuing her, 
Makes but a penitant, and loses a lover. 



PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY; 

WRITTEN BTf JOSEPH CBADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THE 
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772. 

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK. 



In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore 
The distant climates and the savage shore ; 
"When wise astronomers to India steer, 
And quit for Venus many a brighter here ; 
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 



PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. 141 

Forsake the fair, and patiently — go sirnpling : 

Our bard into the general spirit enters, 

And fits his little frigate for adventures. 

"With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, 

He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading ; 

Yet ere he lands he's ordered rae before, 

To make an observation on the shore. 

Where are we driven ? our reckoning sure is lost ! 

This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. 

Lord, what a sultry climate am I under ! 

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder : 

[ Upper Gallery. 
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 

'em — [Pit. 

Here trees of stately size — and billing turtles in 'em. 

[Balconies. 
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound — [Stage. 

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground : 

[ Tasting them. 
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear : 
I heard a hissing — there are serpents here ! 
Oh ! there the people are — best keep my distance : 
Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance ; 
Our ship's well stored — in yonder creek we've laid 

her, 
His Honor is no mercenary trader. 
This is his first adventure : lend him aid, 
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. 
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, 
Equally fit for gallantry and war. 
What ! no reply to promises so ample ? 
I'd best step back — and order up a sample. 



142 EPILOGUE TO THE SISTEBS. 

EPILOGUE 

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.* 

What ! five long acts — and all to make us wiser, 

Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. 

Had she consulted me, she should have made 

Her moral play a speaking masquerade : 

Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage, 

Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. 

My life on't this had kept her play from sinking, 

Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking. 

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, 

What if /give a masquerade? — I will. 

But how ? ay, there's the rub ! [pausing - ] I've got my 

cue: 
The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, you, 

you. \_To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. 

Lud ! what a group the motley scene discloses ! 
False wit, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses ! 
Statesmen with bridles on ; and, close beside 'em, 
Patriots in party-color'd suits that ride 'em : 
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more 
To raise a flame in Cup ids of threescore ; 
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen : 

*By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, 
Shakspeare Illustrated, etc. It was performed one night only at 
Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady Avas praised by Dr. Johnson 
as the cleverest female writer of her age. 



EPILOGUE TO THE SISTERS. 143 

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, 
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman : 
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, 
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 
Thus 't is with all : their chief and constant care 
Is to seem everything — but what they are. 
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, 
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; 
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 
Looking, as who should say, Damme ! who's afraid ? 

[Mimicking. 
Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am 
You'll find his lionship a very lamb : 
Yon politician, famous in debate, 
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state ; 
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume, 
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom. 
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight, 
And seems, to every gazer, all in white, 
If with a bribe his candor you attack, 
He bows, turns round, and whip — the man 's in black : 
Yon critic, too — but whither do I run ? 
If I proceed, our bard will be undone ! 
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too, 
Do you spare her, and I '11 for once spare you. 



EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY 

MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY. 

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, ivho courtesies very low, as bee/inning to speak. 
Then writer Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and courtesies to 
the audience. 

Mrs. Bulkley. Hold, Ma'am, your pardon. What's 
your business here ? 

Miss Catley. The Epilogue. 

Mrs. B. The Epilogue ? 

Miss C Yes, the Epilogue, rny dear. 

Mrs. B. Sure, you mistake, Ma'am. The Epi- 
logue ? /bring it. 

Miss 0. Excuse me, Ma'am. The author bid me 



sing' it. 



Recitative. 



Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring, 
Suspend your conversation while I sing. 

Mrs. B. Why, sure, the girl 's beside herself? an 
Epilogue of singing ? 
A hopful end, indeed, to such a blest beginning. 
Besides, a singer in a comic set — 
Excuse me, Ma'am, I know the etiquette. 

Miss. C. What if we leave it to the house ? 

Mrs. B. Tbe house ? — Agreed. 



EPILOGUE. 145 

Miss G. Agreed. 

Mrs. B. And she whose party 's largest shall pro- 
ceed. 
And first, I hope you'll readily agree 
I 've all the critics and the wits for me. 
They, I am sure, will answer my commands : 
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands. 
What ! no return ? I find too late, I fear, 
That modern judges seldom enter here. 

Miss C. I'm for a different set : — Old men, whose 
trade is 
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies. 

Recitative. 

Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling, 
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling : 

Air. — Cotillon. 
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever 

Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye, 
Pity take on your swain so clever, 
Who without your aid must die. 

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu ! 
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 

Da Capo. 

Mrs. B. Let all the old pay homage to your merit ; 
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. 
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train, 
Of French friseurs and nosegays justly vain, 
Who take a trip to Paris once a-year, 
13 



146 EPILOGUE. 

To dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here, — 
Lend me your hands : 0, fatal news to tell, 
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle. 

Miss C. Ay, take your travellers — travellers indeed 
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed. 
Where are the chiels ? Ah, ah, I well discern 
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn. 

Air. — A bonnie young lad is my Jockey. 
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, 
And be unco merry when you are but gay ; 
"When you with your bagpipes are ready to play. 
My voice shall be ready to carol away 

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, 
With Sawnie, and Jarvie, and Jockey. 

Mrs. B. Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, 
Make but of all your fortune one va toute: 
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, 
' I hold the odds — Done, done, with you, with you.' 
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 
' My Lord, your Lordship misconceives the case ; ' 
Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, 
' I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner : ' 
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, 
Come, end the contest here, and aid my party. 

Air. — Ballinamony. 

Miss C. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack 
Assist me, I pray, in this woeful attack ; 
For — sure, I don't wrong you — you seldom are slack. 



EPILOGUE. 147 

When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back. 
For you are always so polite and attentive, 
Still to amuse us inventive, 
And death is your only preventive ; 
Your hands and voices for me. 

Mrs. B. "Well, Madam, what if, after all this spar- 
ring, we both agree, like friends, to end our jarring ? 
Miss C. And that our friendship may remain un- 
broken, 
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? 
Mrs. B. Agreed. 
Miss C. Agreed. 

Mrs. B. And now with late repentance, 
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. 
Condemn the stubborn fool, who can't submit 
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit. 

Exeunt. 
AN EPILOGUE. 

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKXEY. 

There is a place — so Ariosto sings — 

A treasury for lost and missing things, 

Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, 

And they who lose their senses, there may find them. 

But where 's this place, this storehouse of the age ? 

The Moon, says he ; but I affirm, the Stage — 

At least, in many things I think I see, 

His lunar and our mimic world agree : 

Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, 

We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down ; 



148 EPILOGUE. 

Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, 
And sure the folks of both are lunatics. 
But in this parallel my best pretence is, 
That mortals visit both to find their senses ; 
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits, 
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day, 
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. 
Hither th' affected city dame advancing, 
Who sighs for Operas, and doats on dancing, 
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on, 
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. 
The Gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low, 
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw, 
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. 
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored — 
As, ' Damme, Sir ! ' and ' Sir, I wear a sword ! ' 
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, 
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 
Here comes the sons of scandal and of news, 
But find no sense — for they have none to lose. 
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, 
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser ; 
Has he not seen how you your favor place 
On sentimental queens, and lords in lace ? 
"Without a star, a coronet, or garter, 
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? 
No high-life scenes, no sentiment : the creature 
Still stoops among the low to copy Nature. 
Yes, he 's far gone : and yet some pity fix, 
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. 



EPILOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY ME. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF 
HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. 

Hold ! Promptor, hold ! a word before your nonsense, 
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. 
My pride forbids it ever should be said 
My heels eclipse the honors of my head ; 
That I found humor in a piebald vest, 
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest. 

\_Takes off his mask. 
"Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth ? 
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth : 
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, 
The joy that dimples, and the wo that weeps. 
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood 
Of fools pursuing and of fools pursued ! 
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses, 
Whose only plot it is to break our noses ; 
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise, 
And from above the dangling deities : 
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ? 
May rosin' d lightning blast me if I do ! 
No — I will act — I'll vindicate the stage: 
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. 
Off ! off ! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns ! 
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins. 
Oh ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme, — 
13* 



150 EPILOGUE. 

' Give me another horse ! bind up my wounds ! ' — soft, 

'twas but a dream. 
Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, 
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 
'Twas thus that JEsop's stag, a creature blameless, 
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, 
Once on the margin of a fountain stood 
And cavill'd at his image in the flood : 
'The deuce confound,' he cries, 'these drumstick shanks* 
They never have my gratitude nor thanks ; 
They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! 
But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head : 
How piercing is that eye ! how sleek that brow^. 
My horns ! — I'm told that horns are the fashion *iow." 

Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd to his view, 
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen Wrew •, 
' Hoicks ! hark forward ! ' came thund'ring from behind 
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind ; 
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways ; 
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze : 
At length, his silly head, so prized before, 
Is taught his former folly to deplore ; 
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, 
And at one bound he saves himself — like me. 

\_Taking a jump through the stagfi -iao% 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.* 

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE 

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. 

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO-SQUARE, 

Thursday, the 20th day of February, 1772. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The following may more properly be termed a com- 
pilation than a poem. It was prepared for the compo- 
ser in little more than two days : and may therefore 
rather be considered as an industrious effort of grati- 
tude than of genius. 

In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right 
to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a 
period of time equally short. 

Speakers. — Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. 
Singers. — Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. 

THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR VENTO. 

*This poem was first printed in Chalmer's edition of the English 
Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph Cra- 
dock, Esq., author of the tragedy of Zdbeide. 



152 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

OVERTURE — A SOLEMN DIRGE. 
AIR — TRIO. 

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise, 
And waken every note of woe ! 

When truth and virtue reach the skies, 
'Tis ours to weep the want below. 

CHORUS. 

When truth and virtue, etc. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

The praise attending pomp and power, 

The incense given to kings, 
Are but the trappings of an hour, 

Mere transitory things. 
The base bestow them ; but the good agree 
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery. 
But when to pomp and power are join'd 
An equal dignity of the mind ; 

When titles are the smallest claim ; 
When wealth and rank, and noble blood, 
But aid the power of doing good: 

Then all their trophies last — and flattery turns to 
fame. 
Blest spirit, thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, 
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, 

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven ! 
Even now reproach and faction mourn, 
And, wondering how their rage was born, 



THRENODIA. AUGUSTALIS. .153 

Request to be forgiven ! 
Alas ! they never had thy hate ; 

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude. 

Thy towering mind self-centred stood, 
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. 

In vain, to charm the ravish'd sight, 
A thousand gifts would fortune send ; 

In vain, to drive thee from the right, 
A thousand sorrows urged thy end : 
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood 
And purchased strength from its increased load. 
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, 
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity ! 
Virtue, on herself relying, 

Every passion hushed to rest, 
Loses every pain of dying 

In the hopes of being blest. 
Every added pang she suffers 

Some increasing good bestows, 
And every shock that malice offers 

Only rocks her to repose. 

SONG. BY A MAN— AFFETUOSO. 

Virtue, on herself relying, etc. 

to 
Only rocks her to repose. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

Yet ah ! what terrors frown'd upon her fate, 

Death, with its formidable, band, 
Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care, 



154 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

Determined took their stand. 
Nor did the cruel ravagers design 

To finish all their efforts at a blow ; 

But, mischievously slow, 
They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine. 

With unavailing grief, 

Despairing of relief, 
Her weeping children round 

Beheld each hour 

Death's growing pow'r, 
And trembled as he frown'd. 
As helpless friends who view from shore 
The laboring ship, and hear the tempest roar, 

While winds and waves their wishes cross, — 
They stood, while hope and comfort fail, 
Not to assist, but to bewail 

The inevitable loss. 
Relentless tyrant, at thy call 
How do the good, the virtuous fall ! 
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, 
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. 

SONG. BY A MAN.— BASSO, STOCCATO, SPIRITUOSO. 

When vice my dart and scythe supply, 
How great a King of Terrors I ! 
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage, 
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 

Fall, round me fall, ye little things, 
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings, 
If virtue fail her counsel sage, 
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage ! 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 155 



MAN SPEAKER. 



Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, 
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer : 
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, 
As a safe inn where weary travellers, 
When they have journey 'd through a world of cares, 
May put off life, and be at rest forever. 
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, 
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity. 
The preparation is the executioner. 
Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, 
And is a terror only at a distance : 
Nor as the line of life conducts me on 
To Death's great court, the prospect seems more fair 
'Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open 
To take us in when we have drained the cup 
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness. 
In that secure, serene retreat. 
Where all the humble, all the great, 

Promiscuously recline ; 
Where wildly huddled to the eye, 
The beggar's pouch, and prince's purple lie : 

May every bliss be thine ! 
And, ah ! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight, 
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light, 
May cherubs welcome their expected guest ! 
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest ! 
May peace, that claim'd while here, thy warmest love, 
May blissful, endless peace be thine above ! 



156 THRENOD1A AUGUSTALIS. 



SONG. BY A WOMAN — AMOKuSo. 



Lovely, lasting Peace, below, 
Comforter of every woe, 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the favorites of the sky ! 
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear ! 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 



WOMAN SPEAKER, 



Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, 
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : 
Celestial like her bounty fell, 
Where modest Want and patient Soi-row dwell •> 
Want pass'd for Merit at her door, 

Unseen the modest were supplied, 
Her constant pity fed the poor, — 

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. 
And, oh ! for this, while sculpture decks thy shHue ; . 

And art exhausts profusion round, 
The tribute of a tear be mine, 

A simple song, a sigh profound. . 
There faith shall come — a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay ! 
And calm Religion shall repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree 
To blend their virtues while they think of thee 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 157 



AIH — CHORUS POMPOSO. 



Let us — let all the world agree, 
To profit by resembling thee. 

PART II. 

OVERTURE — PASTORALE. 
MAN* SPEAKER. 

Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent stream, 

Reflects new glories on his breast, 
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream, 

He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest ; 
Where sculptured elegance and native grace 
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place ; 
While, sweetly blending, still are seen 
The wavy lawn, the sloping green ; 

While novelty, with cautious cunning, 

Through every maze of fancy running, 
From China borrows aid to deck the scene : 
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, 

Forlorn, a rural band complain'd, 
All whom Augusta's bounty fed, 

All whom her clemency sustain'd ; 
The good old sire, unconscious of decay, 
The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray, 
The military boy, the orphau'd maid, 
The shatter'd veteran now first dismay'd, — 
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, 

And, as they view the towers of Kew, 
Call on their mistress — now no more — and weep. 

14 



158 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

CHOKUS. — AFFETUOSO, LARGO. 

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens, 

Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes, 

Let all your echoes now deplore, 

That she who form'd your beauties is no more. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

First of the train the patient rustic came, 

Whose callous hand had form'd the scene, 
Bending at once with sorrow and with age, 

With many a tear, and many a sigh between : 
'And where,' he cried, ' shall now my babes have bread, 

Or how shall age support its feeble fire ? 
No lord will take me now, my vigor fled, 

Nor can my strength perform what they require, 
Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare, 
A sleek and idle race is all their care. 
My noble mistress thought not so : 

Her bounty, like the morning dew, 
Unseen, though constant, used to flow, 

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew. 5 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

In decent dress, and coarsely clean, 

The pious matron next was seen, 

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, 

By use and daily meditation worn ; 

That decent dress, this holy guide, 

Augusta's cares had well supplied. 

'And ah ! ' she cries, all wo-begone, 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 159 

' What now remains for me ? 
Oh ! where shall weeping want repair 

To ask for charity? 
Too late in life for me to ask, 

And shame prevents the deed, 
And tardy, tardy are the times 

To succor, should I need. 
But all my wants, before I spoke, 

Were to my mistress known ; 
She still relieved, nor sought my praise, 

Contented with her own. 
But every day her name I'll bless, 

My morning prayer, my evening song, 
I'll praise her while my life shall last, 

A life that cannot last me long.' 

SONG. — BY A WOMAN. 

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless, 

My morning and my evening song, 
And when in death my vows shall cease, 

My children shall the note prolong. 

MAN SPEAKER. 

The hardy veteran after struck the sight, 
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part, 

Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, 
In nought entire — except his heart : 

Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest, 

At last th' impetuous sorrow fired his breast : — 
Wild is the whirlwind rolling 
O'er Afric's sandy plain, 



160 THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 

And wide the tempest howling 

Along the billovv'd main : 
But every danger felt before, 
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar, 
Less dreadful struck me with dismay 
Than what I feel this fatal day. 
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, 
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave ; 
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast, 
And lay my body where my limbs were lost. 

SONG. BY A MAN.— BASSO SPIRITUOSO. 

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield, 
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field, 

To do thy memory right : 
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, 
Again they snatch the gleamy steel, 

And wish th' avenging fight. 

WOMAN SPEAKER. 

In innocence and youth complaining, 

Next appear'd a lovely maid ; 
Affliction, o'er each feature reigning, 

Kindly came in beauty's aid : 
Every grace that grief dispenses, 

Every glance that warms the soul, 
In sweet succession charms the senses, 

While Pity harmonized the whole. 
' The garland of beauty,' 'tis thus she would say, 

' No more shall my crook or my temples adorn ; 
I'll not wear a garland — Augusta 's away — 



THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS. 161 

I'll not wear a garland until she return. 
But, alas ! that return I never shall see : 

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, 
There promised a lover to come — but, ah me ! 

'Twas death — 'twas the death of my mistress that 
came. 
But ever, for ever, her image shall last, 

I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom ; 
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 

SONG. — BY A WOMAN.— PASTORALE. 

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May 

No more will her crook or her temples adorn ; 
For who'd wear a garland when she is away, 

When she is removed, and shall never return ? 
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed, 

We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 

And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb. 

CHORUS.— ALTEO MODO. 

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed, 
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom, 

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, 
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb. 



14* 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO.* 

THE PERSONS. 

First Jewish Prophet. First Chaldean Priest. 

Second Jewish Prophet. Second Chaldean Priest. 
Israelitish Woman. Chaldean Woman. 

Chorus of Youths and. Virgins. 
Scene. — The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon. 



ACT THE FIRST. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Ye captive tribes that hourly work and weep 
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep 
Suspend your woes a while, the task suspend, 
And turn to God, your father and your friend •. 
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe, 
Our God alone is all we boast below. 

Air. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Our God is all we boast below, 
To him we turn our eyes ; 

•This was first printed from the original, in Dr. Goldsmith's 
own hand-writing, in the Svo. edition of his Miscellaneous Works, 
published in 1820. 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 163 

And every added weight of wo 
Shall make our homage rise. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

And though no temple richly dress'd, 

Nor sacrifice is here, 
We'll make his temple in our breast, 

And offer up a tear. 

\_T he first stanza repeated by the Chorus. 

ISBAELITISH WOMAN. 

That strain once more ! it bids remembrance rise, 
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes : 
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride, 
Ye plains where Kedron rolls its glassy tide, 
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd, 
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around, — 
How sweet those groves ! that plain how wondrous fair 
How doubly sweet when Heaven was with us there ! 

Air. 

O Memory ! thou fond deceiver, 

Still importunate and vain ; 
To former joys recurring ever, 

And turning all the past to pain. 

Hence, intruder most distressing ! 

Seek the happy and the free : 
The wretch who wants each other blessing, 

Ever wants a friend in thee. 

SECOND PKOPHET. 

Yet why complain ? What though by bonds confined ! 



164 THE captivity: an oratorio. 

Should bonds repress the vigor of the mind ? 
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see 
Ourselves alone from idol worship free ? 
Are not, this very morn, those feasts begun 
Where prostrate error hails the rising sun ? 
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain 
For superstitious rites and mirth profane ? 
And should we mourn ? Should coward virtue fly, 
When vaunting folly lifts her head on high ? 
No ! rather let us triumph still the more, 
And as our fortune sinks, our spirits soar. 

Air. 

The triumphs that on vice attend 
Shall ever in confusion end ; 
The good man suffers but to gain, 
And every virtue springs from pain : 
As aromatic plants bestow 
No spicy fragrance while they grow ; 
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground, 
Diffuse their balmy sweets around. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near, 

The sounds of barbarous pleasure strike mine ear ; 

Triumphant music floats along the vale, 

Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale : 

The growing sound their swift approach declares — 

Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs. 



THE captivity: an oratorio. 165 

Enter Chaldean Puiests attended. 
Air. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Come on, my companions, the triumph display, 

Let rapture the minutes employ ; 
The sun calls us out on this festival day, 

And our monarch partakes in the joy. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Like the sun, our great monarch all rapture supplies,, 

Both similar blessings bestow : 
The sun with his splendor illumines the skies, 

And our monarch enlivens below. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN WOMAN. 

Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure, 
Love presents the fairest treasure, 
Leave all other joys for me. 

A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT. 

Or rather, love's delights despising, 
Haste to raptures ever rising, 

Wine shall bless the brave and free. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Wine and beauty thus inviting, 
Each to different joys exciting, 
Whither shall my choice incline. 



166 the captivity: an oratorio. 



SECOND PRIEST. 



I'll waste no longer thought in choosing, 
But, neither this nor that refusing 

I'll make them both together mine. 



FIRST PRIEST. 



But whence, when joy should brighten o'er the bud, 
This sullen gloom in Judah's captive band ? 
Ye sons of Judah, why the lute unstrung ? 
Or why those harps on yonder willows hung? 
Come, take the lyre, and pour the strain along; 
The day demands it : sing us Sion's song, 
Dismiss your griefs, and join our warbling choir, 
For who like you can wake the sleeping lyre V 

Air, 

Every moment as it flows, 
Some peculiar pleasure owes. 

Come, then, providently wise, 
Seize the debtor e'er it flies. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Think not to-morrow can repay 
The debt of pleasure lost to-day 

Alas ! to-morrow's richest store 
Can but pay its proper score. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Chain'd as we are, the scorn of all mankind, 
To want, to toil, and every ill consign'd, 
Is this a time to bid us raise the strain, 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 167 

Oi' mix in rites that Heaven regards with pain ? 
No, never ! may this hand forget each art 
That wakes to finest joys the human heart, 
Ere I forget the land that gave me birth, 
Or join to sounds profane its sacred mirth ! 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Rebellious slaves ! if soft persuasions fail, 
More formidable terrors shall prevail. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Why, let them come, one good remains to cheer — 
"We fear the Lord, and scorn all other fear. 

[Exeunt Chaldeans. 

CRORUS OF ISRAELITES. 

Can chains or tortures bend the mind 

On God's supporting breast reclined ? 

Stand fast, and let our tyrant see 

That fortitude is victory. [Exeunt. 



ACT THE SECOND. 

Israelites and Chaldeans as before. 

Air. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

peace of mind, angelic guest, 
Thou soft companion of the breast, 
Dispense thy balmy store ! 



168 THE captivity: an oratorio. 

Wing all our thoughts to reach the skies, 
Till earth, receding from our eyes, 
Shall vanish as we soar ! 

FIRST PRIEST. 

No more. Too long has justice been delay 'd, 
The king's commands must fully be obey'd ; 
Compliance with his will your peace secures, 
Praise but our gods, and every good is yours. 
But if, rebellious to his high command, 
You spurn the favors offer'd from his hand, 
Think, timely think, what terrors are behind : 
Reflect, nor tempt to rage the royal mind. 

Air. 

Fierce is the tempest howling 

Along the furrow'd main, 
And fierce the whirlwind rolling 

O'er Afric's sandy plain. 

But storms that fly 

To rend the sky, 
Every ill presaging, 

Less dreadful show 

To worlds below 
Than angry monarchs raging. 

ISRAELITISH WOMEN. 

Ah me ! what angry terrors round us grow ! 

How shrinks my soul to meet the threaten'd blow * 

Ye prophets, skill'd in Heaven's eternal truth, 



the captivity: an okatorio. 169 

Forgive my sex's fears, forgive my youth ! 
Ah ! let us one, one little hour obey ; 
To-morrow's tears may wash the stain away. 

Air. 

Fatigued with life, yet loth to part, 

On hope the wretch relies; 
And every blow that sinks the heart 

Bids the deluder rise. 

Hope, like the taper's gleamy light, 

Adorns the wretch's way ; 
And still, as darker grows the night, 

Emits a brighter ray. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Why this delay 1 At length for joy prepare : 
I read your looks, and see compliance there. 
Come on, and bid the warbling rapture rise; 
Our monarch's fame the noblest theme supplies. 
Begin, ye captive bands, and strike the lyre; 
The time, the theme, the place, and all conspire. 

Air. 

CHALDEAN ■WOMAN. 

See the ruddy morning smiling, 
Hear the grove to bliss beguiling ; 
Zephyrs through the woodland playing, 
Streams along the valley straying. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

While these a constant revel keep, 
15 



170 the captivity: an oratorio. 

Shall reason only teach to weep ? 
Hence, intruder ! we'll pursue 
Nature, a better guide than you. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

But hold ! see, foremost of the captive choir, 
The master prophet grasps his full-toned lyre. 
Mark where he sits, with executing art, 
Feels for each tone, and speeds it to the heart. 
See, how prophetic rapture fills his form, 
Awful as clouds that nurse the growing storm ! 
And now his voice, accordant to the string, 
Prepares our monarch's victories to sing. 

Air. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

From north, from south, from east, from west, 

Conspiring nations come : 
Tremble, thou vice-polluted breast ! 

Blasphemers, all be dumb. 

The tempest gathers all around, 

On Babylon it lies ; 
Down with her ! down, down to the ground 

She sinks, she groans, she dies. 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Down with her, Lord, to lick the dust, 

Before yon setting sun ; 
Serve her as she hath served the just ! 

'Tis fix'd — it shall be clone. 



the captivity: an oratorio. 171 



FIRST PRIEST. 



No more ! when slaves thus insolent presume, 

The king himself shall judge and fix their doom. 

Unthinking wretches ! have not you and all 

Beheld our power in Zedekiah's fall ? 

To yonder gloomy dungeon turn your eyes : 

See where dethroned your captive monarch lies, 

Deprived of sight, and rankling in his chain ; 

See where he mourns his friends and children slain. 

Yet know, ye slaves, that still remain behind 

More ponderous chains, and dungeons more confined. 



CHORDS OF ALL. 



Arise, all potent ruler, rise, 

And vindicate the people's cause, 

Till every tongue in every land 
Shall offer up unfeigned applause. 

\Exeunt. 



ACT THE THIRD. 



FIRST PRIEST. 



Yes, my companions, Heaven's decrees are pass'd, 

And our fix'd empire shall for ever last : 

In vain the madd'ning prophet threatens woe, 

In vain rebellion aims her secret blow ; 

Still shall our name and growing power be spread, 

And still our justice crush the traitor's head. 



172 the captivity: an oratorio. 



Ait 



Coeval with man 
Our empire began, 
And never shall fall 
Till ruin shakes all, 
When ruin shakes all, 
Then shall Babylon fall. 

SECOND PKOPHET. 

'Tis thus the proud triumphant rear the head,— 
A little while and all their power is fled. 
But, ha ! what means yon sadly plaintive train, 
That onward slowly bends along the plain ? 
And now, behold, to yonder bank they bear 
A pallid corse, and rest the body there. 
Alas ! too well mine eyes indignant trace 
The last remains of Judah's royal race : 
Fall'n is our king, and all our fears are o'er, 
Unhappy Zedekiah is no more. 

Air. 

Ye wretches, who, by fortune's hate, 

In want and sorrow groan, 
Come, ponder his severer fate, 

And learn to bless your own. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Ye vain, whom youth and pleasure guide, 

Awhile the bliss suspend ; 
Like yours, his life began in pride. 

Like his, your lives shall end. 



THE CAPTIVITY: AN ORATORIO. 173 



SECOND PROPHET. 



Behold his wretched corse with sorrow worn, 
His squalid limbs by ponderous fetters torn ; 
Those eyeless orbs that shook with ghastly glare, 
Those unbecoming rags, that matted hair ! 
And shall not Heaven for this avenge the foe, 
Grasp the red bolt, and lay the guilty low ? 
How long, how long, Almighty God of all, 
Shall wrath vindictive threaten ere it fall ? 

Air. 

ISRAELITISH WOMAN. 

As panting flies the hunted hind, 
Where brooks refreshing stray ; 

And rivers through the valley wind, 
That stop the hunter's way : 

Thus we, Lord, alike distress'd, 

For streams of mercy long ; 
Streams which cheer the sore oppress'd, 

And overwhelm the strong. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

But whence that shout ? Good Heavens ! Amaze- 
ment all ! 
See yonder tower just nodding to the fall : 
Behold, an army covers all the ground, 
'Tis Cyrus here that pours destruction round. 
And now, behold, the battlements recline — 
God of hosts, the victory is thine ! 
15* 



174 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 



CHORUS OF CAPTIVES. 



Down with them, Lord, to lick the dust ; 

Thy vengeance be begun ; 
Serve them as they have served the just, 

And let thy will be done. 



FIRST PRIEST. 



All, ail is lost ! The Syrian army fails, 
Cyrus, the conqueror of the world prevails. 
The ruin smokes, the torrent pours along — 
How low *he proud, how feeble are the strong ! 
Save us, O Lord ! to Thee, though late, we pray ; 
And give repentance but an hour's delay. 

Air. 

FIRST AND SECOND PRIESTS. 

happy, who in happy hour 
To God their praise bestow, 

And own his all-consuming power 
Before they feel the blow ! 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Now, now 's our time ! ye wretches, bold and blind, 

Brave but to God, and cowards to mankind, 

Ye seek in vain the Lord unsought before, 

Your wealth, your lives, your kingdom, are no more. 

Air. 

O Lucifer, thou son of morn, 

Of Heaven alike, and man the foe, — 
Heaven, men, and all, 



THE captivity: an oratorio. 175 

Now press thy fall, 
And sink the lowest of the low. 

FIRST PROPHET. 

Babylon, how art thou fallen ! 
Thy fall more dreadful from delay ! 

Thy streets forlorn, 

To wilds shall turn, 
Where toads shall pant and vultures prey 

SECOND PROPHET. 

Such he her fate. But hark ! how from afar 
The clarion's note proclaims the finish'd T*rar ! 
Our great restorer, Cyrus, is at hand, 
And tins way leads his formidable band. 
Give, give your songs of Sion to the wind, 
And hail the benefactor of mankind : 
He comes ; pursuant to divine decree, 
To chain the strong, and set the captive free. 

CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 

Rise to transports past expressing, 
Sweeter by remember'd woes; 

Cyrus comes, our wrongs redressing. 
Comes to give the world repose. 

CHORUS OF VIRGINS. 

Cyrus comes, the world redressing, 
Love and pleasure in his train ; 

Comes to heighten every blessing, 
Comes to soften every pain. 



176 THE CAPTIVITY : AN ORATORIO. 



SEMI-CHORUS. 



Hail to him with mercy reigning, 
Skill'd in every peaceful art ; 

Who, from bonds our limbs unchaining, 
Only binds the willing heart. 



THE LAST CHORUS. 



But chief to thee, our God, defender, friend, 
Let praise be given to all eternity ; 

O Thou, without beginning, without end, 
Let us, and all, begin and end in Thee ! 



LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH. 

INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE, OF APRIL 3, 1800. 

E'en have you seen, bathed in the morning dew, 
The budding rose its infant bloom display ; 

When first its virgin tints unfold to view, 

It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day : 

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, 

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; 

I gazed, I sigh'd, I caught the tender flame, 

Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with passion weak. 



THE 

GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

A COMEDY. 

This admirable comedy was represented for the first time at Covent 
Garden, January 29, 1768. It kept possession of the stage for nine 
nights, but was considered by the author's friends not to have met 
with all the success it deserved. Dr. Johnson said it was the best 
comedy which had appeared since ' TJie Provoked Husband,' and 
Burke estimated its merits still higher. 

PREFACE. 

When I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was 
strongly prepossessed in favor of the poets of the last age, and 
strove to imitate them. The tenn genteel comedy was then 
unknown amongst us, and little more was desired by an au- 
dience than nature and humor, in whatever walks of life they 
were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes 
never imagined that more would be expected of him, and 
therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. 
Those who know anything of composition are sensible that in 
pursuing humor it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of 
the mean : I was even tempted to look for it in the master 
of a sponging-house ; but, in deference to the public taste, — 
grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, — the scene of the bailiffs 
was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to 
the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way 
the scene is here restored . The author submits it to the 
reader in his closet, and hopes that too much refinement will 



178 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

not banish humor and character from ours, as it has already 
done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy 
is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has 
not only banished humor and Moliere from the stage, but it 
has banished all spectators too. 

Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the pub- 
lic for the favorable reception which the Good-Natured Man 
has met with ; and to Mr. Colman in particular, for his kind- 
ness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any who 
shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed 
merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 
Mr. Honcyioood. 
Croaker. 
Lofty. 

Sir William Honeywood. 
Leontine. 
Jarvis. 
Butler. 
Bailiff. 
Dubardieu. 
Postboy. 

WOMEN. 

Miss Bichland. 

Olivia. 

Mrs. Croaker. 

Garnet. 

Landlady. 

Scene. — London. 



THE 

GOOD-NATURED MAN. 



PROLOGUE, 

WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON, SPOKEN BY MS, BENSLEY. 

Peess'd by the load of life, the weary mind 

Surveys the general toil of human kind, 

With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, 

And social sorrow loses half its pain : 

Our anxious bard, without complaint may share 

This bustling season's epidemic care, 

Like Caesar's pilot, dignified by fate, 

Toss'd in one common storm with all the great; 

Distress'd alike, the statesman and the wit, 

When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit. 

The busy candidates for power and fame 

Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same : 

Disabled both to combat or to fly, 

Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply ; 

Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, 

As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. 

Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, 

For that blest year when all that vote may rail ; 



180 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, 
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss. 
'This day, the powder'd curls and golden coat,' 
Says swelling Crispin, ' begg'd a cobbler's vote.' 
' This night our wit,' the pert apprentice cries, 
'Lies at my feet — I hiss him, and he dies.' 
The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe, 
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold, 
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold ; 
But confident of praise, if praise be due, 
Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 



ACT FIRST. 

Scene — an apartment in yodng honeywood's house. 
Enter Sir William Honeyivood and Jarvis. 

Sir William. Good Jarvis, make no apologies for 
this honest bluntness. Fidelity, like yours, is the best 
excuse for every freedom. 

Jarvis. I can't help being blunt, and being very 
angry too, when I hear you talk of disinheriting so 
good, so worthy a young gentleman as your nephew, 
my master. All the world loves him. 

Sir William. Say rather, that he loves all the 
world ; that is his fault. 

Jarvis. I am sure there is no part of it more dear 
to him than you are, though he has not seen you since 
he was a child. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 181 

Sir William. What signifies this affection to me ? 
or how can I be proud of a place in a heart, where 
every sharper and coxcomb find an easy entrance? 

Jarvis. I grant you that he is rather too good- 
natured ; that he's too much every man's man ; that he 
laughs this minute with one, and cries the next with an- 
other : but whose instructions may he thank for all this ? 
Sir William. Not mine, sure. My letters to him 
during my employment in Italy, taught him only that 
philosophy which might prevent, not defend, his errors. 
Jarvis. Faith, begging your honor's pardon, I'm 
sorry they taught him any philosophy at all ; it has only 
served to spoil him. This same philosophy is a good 
horse in a stable, but an arrant jade on a journey. For 
my own part, whenever I hear him mention the name 
on't, I'm always sure he's going to play the fool. 

Sir William. Don't let us ascribe his faults to his 
philosophy, I entreat you. No, Jarvis, his good-nature 
arises rather from his fears of offending the importu- 
nate than his desire of making the deserving happy. 

Jarvis. What it arises from, I don't know ; but, to 
be sure, everybody has it that asks for it. 

Sir William. Ay, or that does not ask it. I have 
been now for some time a concealed spectator of his 
follies, and find them as boundless as his dissipation. 

Jarvis. And yet, faith, he has some fine name or other 
for them all. He calls his extravagance generosity ; and 
his trusting everybody, universal benevolence. It was 
but last week he went security for a fellow whose face 
he scarce knew, and that he called an act of exalted 
mu — mu — munificence ; ay, that was the name he gave 
it. 16 



182 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Sir William. And upon that I proceed, as my last 
effort, though with very little hopes, to .reclaim him. 
That very fellow has just absconded, and I have taken 
up the security. Now, my intention is to involve him 
in fictitious distress, before he has plunged himself 
into real calamity : to arrest him for that very debt, 
to clap an officer upon him, and then let him see 
which of his friends will come to his relief. 

Jarvis. Well, if I could but any way see him thor- 
oughly vexed, every groan of his would be music to 
me ; yet, faith, I believe it impossible. I have tried 
to fret him myself every morning these three years ; 
but instead of being angry, he sits as calmly to hear 
me scold, as he does to his hair-dresser. 

Sir William. We must try him once more, however, 
and I'll go this instant to put my scheme into execu- 
tion : and I don't despair of succeeding, as, by your 
means, I can have frequent opportunities of being 
about him without being known. What a pity it is, 
Jarvis, that any man's good-will to others should pro- 
duce so much neglect of himself, as to require correc- 
tion ! Yet we must touch his weaknesses with a deli- 
cate hand. There are some faults so nearly allied to 
excellence, that we can scarce weed out the vice with- 
out eradicating the virtue. \_Exit. 
Jarvis. Well, go thy ways, Sir William Honey- 
wood. It is not without reason, that the world allows 
thee to be the best of men. But here comes his hope- 
ful nephew — the strange, good-natured, foolish, open 
hearted — And yet, all his faults are such, that one 
^oves him still the better for them. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 183 

Enter Honeywood. 

Honeywood. Well, Jarvis, what messages from my 
friends this morning? 

Jarvis. You have no friends. 

Honeywood. Well, from my acquaintance, then ? 

Jarvis. (Pulling out bills.) A few of our usual cards 
of compliment, that's all. This bill from your tailor ; 
this from your mercer ; and this from the little broker 
in Crooked-lane. He says he has been at a great deal 
of trouble to get back the money you borrowed. 

Honeywood. That I don't know ; but I am sure we 
were at a great deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 

Jarvis. He has lost all patience. 

Honeyioood. Then he has lost a very good thing. 

Jarvis. There's that ten guineas you were sending to 
the poor gentleman and his children in the Fleet. I 
believe they would stop his mouth for a while at least. 

Honeywood. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
mouths in the mean time ? Must I be cruel, because 
he happens to be importunate ; and, to relieve his ava- 
rice, leave them to insupportable distress ? 

Jarvis. 'Sdeath ! sir, the question now is how to re- 
lieve yourself — yourself. Haven't I reason to be out 
of my senses, when I see things going at sixes and 
sevens ? 

Honeywood. Whatever reason you may have for 
being out of your senses, I hope you'll allow that I'm 
not quite unreasonable for continuing in mine. 

Jarvis. You are the only man alive in your present 
situation that could do so. Everything upon the waste. 



184 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

There's Miss Richland and her fine fortune gone al- 
ready and upon the point of being given to your rival. 

Honeywood. I'm no man's rival. 

Jarvis. Your uncle in Italy preparing to disinherit 
you ; your own fortune almost spent ; and nothing but 
pressing creditors, false friends, and a pack of drunken 
servants that your kindness has made unfit for any 
other family. 

Honeywood. Then they have the more occasion for 
being in mine. 

Jarvis. Soh ! What will you have done with him 
that I caught stealing your plate in the pantry ? In 
the fact — I caught him in the fact. 

Honeywood. In the fact ? If so, I really think that 
we should pay him his wages, and turn him off. 

Jarvis. He shall be turned off at Tyburn, the dog, 
we'll hang him, if it be only to frighten the rest of the 
family. 

Honeywood. No, Jarvis : it's enough that we have 
lost what he has stolen ; let us not add to it the loss of 
a fellow-creature ! 

Jarvis. Very fine! well, here was the footman just 
now, to complain of the butler : he says he does most 
work, and ought to have most wages. . 

Honeywood. That's but just ; though perhaps here 
comes the butler to complain of the footman. 

Jarvis. Ay, it's the way with them all, from the 
scullion to the privy-councillor. If they have a bad 
master, they keep quarrelling with him ; if they have a 
good master, they keep quarrelling with one another. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 185 

Enter Butler, drunk. 

Butler. Sir, I'll not stay in the family with Jona 
than, you must part with him, or part with me, that's 
the ex — ex — exposition of the matter, sir. 

Honeywood. Full and explicit enough. But what 
is his fault, good Philip ? 

Butler. Sir, he's given to drinking, sir, and I shall 
have my morals corrupted by keeping such company. 

Honeywood. Ha ! ha ! he has such a diverting way — 

Jarvis. Oh, quite amusing. 

Butler. I find my wine's a-going, sir ; and liquors 
don't go without mouths, sir — I hate a drunkard, sir. 

Honeywood. Well, well, Philip, I'll hear you upon 
that another time ; so go to bed now. 

Jarvis. To bed ! let him go to the devil. 

Butler. Begging your honor's pardon, and begging 
your pardon, master Jarvis, I'll not go to bed nor to 
the devil neither. I have enough to do to mind my 
cellar. I forgot, your honor, Mr. Croaker is below. 
I came on purpose to tell you. 

Honeywood. Why didn't you send him up, block- 
head? 

Butler. Show him up, sir ? With all my heart, sir. 
Up or down, all's one to me. \_Exit. 

Jarvis. Ay, we have one or other of that family in 
this house from morning till night. He comes on the 
old affair, I suppose. The match between his son, 
that's just returned from Paris, and Miss Richland, 
the young lady he's guardian to. 

Honeywood. Perhaps so. Mr. Croaker, knowing my 
16* 



186 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

friendship for the young lady, has got it into his head 
that I can persuade her to what I please. 

Jarvis. Ah ! if you loved yourself hut half as well 
as she loves you, we should soon see a marriage that 
would soon set all things to rights again. 

Honeywood. Love me ! Sure, Jarvis, you dream. No, 
ao ; her intimacy with me never amounted to more than 
friendship — mere friendship. That she is the most 
lovely woman that ever warmed the human heart with 
lesire, I own : but never let me harbor a thought of 
making her unhappy, by a connection with one so un- 
worthy her merits as I am. No, Jarvis, it shall be my 
study to serve her, even in spite of my wishes ; and to 
secure her happiness, though it destroys my own. 

Jarvis. Was ever the like ? I want patience. 

Honeywood. Besides, Jarvis, though I could obtain 
Miss Richland's consent, do you think I could succeed 
with her guardian, or Mrs. Croaker, his wife ? who, 
though both very fine in their way, are yet a little op- 
posite in their dispositions, you know. 

Jarvis. Opposite enough, Heaven knows ! the very 
reverse of each other : she all laugh, and no joke ; he 
always complaining, and never sorrowful — a fretful, 
poor soul, that has a new distress for every hour in 
the four-and-twenty — 

Honeywood. Hush, hush ! he's coming up, he'll 
hear you. 

Jarvis. One whose voice is a passing bell — 

Honeywood. Well, well ; go, do. 

Jarvis. A raven that bodes nothing but mischief — a 
coffin and cross-bones — a bundle of rue — a sprig of 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 187 

deadly nightshade — a — (Honeywood, stopping his 
mouth, at last pushes him off.) [Exit Jarvis. 

Honeyioood. I must own my old monitor is not en- 
tirely wrong. There is something in my friend Croak- 
er's conversation that quite depresses me. His very 
mirth is an antidote to all gaiety, and his appearance 
has a stronger effect on my spirits than an undertaker's 
shop — Mr Croaker, this is such a satisfaction — 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. A pleasant morning to Mr. Honeywood, 
and many of them. How is this ? you look most 
shockingly to-day, my dear friend. I hope this weath- 
er does not affect your spirits. To be sure, if this 
weather continues — I say nothing ; but God send we 
be all better this day three months ! 

Honeyioood. I heartily concur in the wish, though, 
I own, not in your apprehensions. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies what 
weather we have in a country going to ruin like ours ? 
taxes rising and trade falling : money flying out of the 
kingdom, and Jesuits swarming into it. I know, at 
this time, no less than a hundred and twenty-seven 
Jesuits between Charing Cross and Temple Bar. 

Honeywood. The Jesuits will scarce pervert you 
or me, I should hope. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whom 
they pervert, in a country that has scarce any religion 
to lose ? I'm only afraid for our wives and daughters. 

Honeyioood. I have no apprehensions for the ladies, 
I assure } r ou. 



188 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker. May be not. Indeed, what signifies whether 
they be perverted or no ? The women in my time were 
good for something. I have seen a lady drest from 
top to toe in her own manufactures formerly ; but 
now-a-days, the devil a thing of their own manufac- 
ture's about them, except their faces. 

Honeywood. But, however these faults may be 
practised abroad, you don't find them at home, either 
with Mrs. Croaker, Olivia, or Miss Richland ? 

Croaker. The best of them will never be canonized 
for a saint when she's dead.— By the by, my dear friend, 
I don't find this match between Miss Richland and my 
son much relished, either by one side or t'other. 

Honeywood. I thought otherwise. 

Croaker. Ah ! Mr. Honeywood, a little of your fine 
serious advice to the young lady might go far : I know 
she has a very exalted opinion of your understanding. 

Honeyivood. But would not that be usurping an 
authority, that more properly belongs to yourself ? 

Croaker. My dear friend, you know but little of my 
authority at home. People think, indeed, because they 
see me come out in the morning thus, with a pleasant 
face, and to make my friends merry, that all's well 
within. But I have cares that would break a heart of 
stone. My wife has so encroached upon every one of 
my privileges, that I'm now no more than a mere 
lodger in my own house. 

Honeyioood. But a little spirit exerted on your side 
might perhaps restore your authority. 

Croaker. No, though I had the spirit of a lion ! I do 
rouse sometimes ; but what then ? always haggling and 



THK GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 189 

haggling. A man is tired of getting the better, before 
his wife is tired of losing the victory. 

Honeywood. It 's a melancholy consideration, indeed, 
that our chief comforts often produce our greatest anxie- 
ties, and that an increase of our possessions is but an 
inlet to new disquietudes. 

Croaker. Ah ! my dear friend, these were the very 
words of poor Dick Doleful to me, not a week before he 
made away with himself. Indeed, Mr. Honeywood, I 
never see you but you put me in mind of poor Dick. 
Ah ! there was merit neglected for you ; and so true a 
friend ! we loved each other for thirty years, and yet he 
never asked me to lend him a single farthing. 

Honeywood. Pray what could induce him to commit 
so rash an action at last? 

Croaker. I don't know; some people were malicious 
enough to say it was keeping company with me, because 
we used to meet now and then, and open our hearts to 
each other. To be sure, I loved to hear him talk, and he 
loved to hear me talk : poor, clear Dick ! He used to say 
that Croaker rhymed to joker; and so we used to laugh 
— Poor Dick ! [ Going to cry, 

Honeywood. His fate affects me. 

Croaker. Ah ! he grew sick of this miserable life, 
where we do nothing but eat and grow hungry, dress and 
undress, get up and lie down ; while reason, that should 
watch like a nurse by our side, falls as fast asleep a& 
we do. 

Honeywood. To say a truth, if we compare that part- 
of life which is to come by that which we have past th** 
prospect is hideous. 



190 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker. Life, at the greatest and best, is but a 
forward child, that must be humored and coaxed a lit' 
tie till it falls asleep, and then all the care is over. 

Honeywood. Very true, sir, nothing can exceed the 
vanity of our existence, but the folly of our pursuits. 
We wept when we came into the world, and every day 
tells us why. 

Croaker. Ah! my dear friend, it is a perfect satis- 
faction to be miserable with you. My son Leontine 
shan't lose the benefit of such fine conversation. I'll 
just step home for him. I am willing to show him so 
much seriousness in one scarce older than himself. 
And what if I bring my last letter to the Gazetteer, on 
the increase and progress of earthquakes? It will 
amuse us, I promise you. I there prove how the late 
earthquake is coming round to pay us another visit — 
from London to Lisbon — from Lisbon to the Canary 
Islands — from the Canary Islands to Palmyra — from 
Palmyra to Constantinople, and so from Constantino- 
ple back to London again. \_Exit. 
Honeyivood. Poor Croaker ! his situation deserves 
the utmost pity. I shall scarce recover my spirits 
these three days. Sure, to live upon such terms, is 
worse than death itself. An yet, when I consider my 
own situation — a broken fortune, a hopeless passion, 
friends in distress, the wish, but not the power to serve 
them [Pausing and sighing. 

Enter Butler. 

Butler. More company below, sir; Mrs. Croaker 
and Miss Richland ; shall I show them up ? — but 
they're showing up themselves. \ExiU 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 191 

Enter Mrs. Croaker and Miss Richland. 

Miss Richland. You 're always in such spirits. 

Mrs. Croaker. We have just come, hit dear Hon- 
eywood, from the auction. There was the old cleaf 
dowager, as usual, bidding like a fury against herself. 
And then so curious in antiquities ! herself, the most 
genuine piece of antiquity in the whole collection. 

Honeywood. Excuse me ladies, if some uneasiness 
from friendshq;> makes me unfit to share in this good 
humor : I know you'll pardon me. 

Mrs. Croaker. I vow he seems as melancholy as if 
he had taken a dose of my husband this morning. 
"Well, if Richland here can pardon you, I must. 

Miss Richland. You would seem to insinuate, mad- 
am, that I have particular reasons for being disposed 
to refuse it. 

Mrs. Croaker. Whatever I insinuate, my dear, 
don't be so ready to wish an explanation. 

Miss Richland. I own I should be sorry Mr. Hon- 
eywood's long friendship and mine should be misun- 
derstood. 

Honeywood. There's no answering for others, mad- 
am. But I hope you'll never find me presuming to 
offer more than the most delicate friendship may read- 
ily allow. 

Miss Richland. And I shall be prouder of such a 
tribute from you, than the most passionate professions 
from others. 

JIo?ieywood. My own sentiments, madam : friend- 
ship is a disinterested commerce between equals ; love, 
an abject intercourse between tyrants and slaves. 



1 92 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Miss Richland. And without a compliment, I know 
none more disinterested, or more capable of friendship 
than Mr. Honey wood. 

Mrs. Croaker And, indeed, I know nobody that 
has more friends, at least among the ladies. Miss 
Fruzz, Miss Oddbody, and Miss Winterbottom, praise 
him in all companies. As for Miss Biddy Bundle, 
she's his professed admirer. 

Miss Richland. Indeed ! an admirer ! — I did not 
know, sir, you were such a favorite there. But is she 
seriouly so handsome ? Is she the mighty thing talked 
of? 

Honeywood. The town, madam, seldom begins to 
praise a lady's beauty, till she 's beginning to lose it. 

[Smiling. 

Mrs. Croaker. But she 's resolved never to lose it, 
it seems. For as her natural face decays, her skill 
improves in making the artificial one. Well, nothing 
diverts me more than one of those fine, old, dressy 
things, who thinks to conceal her age by everywhere 
exposing her person ; sticking herself up in the front 
of a side-box ; trailing through a minuet at Almack's, 
and then, in the public gardens — looking, for all the 
world, like one of the painted ruins of the place. 

Honeywood. Every age has its admirers, Ladies. 
While you, perhaps, are trading among the warmer 
climates of youth, there ought to be some to carry on 
a useful commerce in the frozen latitudes beyond fifty. 

Miss. Richland. But, then, the mortifications they 
must suffer, before they can be fitted out for traffic. I 
have seen one of them fret a whole morning at her 
hair dresser, when all the fault was her face. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 193 

Honeywood. And yet, I '11 engage, has carried that 
face at last to a very good market. This good-natured 
town, madam, has husbands, like spectacles, to fit 
every age from fifteen to fourscore. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, you 're a dear good-natured 
creature. But you know you 're engaged with us this 
morning upon a strolling party. I want to show Olivia 
the town, and the things : I believe I shall have busi- 
ness for you the whole day. 

Honeywood. I am sorry, madam, I have an appoint- 
ment with Mr. Croaker, which it is impossible to put 
off. 

Mrs. Croaker. What! with my husband? then I'm 
resolved to take no refusal. Nay, I protest you must. 
You know I never laugh so much as with you. 

Honeywood. Why, if I must, I must. I '11 swear 
you have put me into such spirits. Well, do you find 
jest, and I'll find laugh, I promise you. We'll wait 
for the chariot in the next room. \_Exeunt. 

Enter Leontine and Olivia. 

Leontine. There they go, thoughtless and happy. 
My dearest Olivia, what would I give to see you capa- 
ble of sharing in their amusements, and as cheerful as 
they are ! 

Olivia. How, my Leontine, how can I be cheerful, 
when I have so many terrors to oppress me? The fear 
of being detected by this family, and the apprehen- 
sions of a censuring world, when I must be detected 

Leontine. The world, my love ! what can it say ? 
17 



194 THE aOOD-NATUREB MAN. 

At worst it can only say, that, being compelled by a 
mercenary guardian to embrace a life you disliked, you 
formed a resolution of flying with the man of your 
choice ; that you confided in his honor, and took refuge 
in my father's house, — the only one where yours could 
remain without censure. 

Olivia. But consider, Leontine, your disobedience 
and my indiscretion ; your being sent to^France to 
bring home a sister, and instead of a sister, bringing 
home 

Leontine. One dearer than a thousand sisters. One 
that I am convinced will be equally dear to the rest of 
the family, when she comes to be known. 

Olivia. And that, I fear, will shortly be. 

Leontine. Impossible, till we ourselves think pro- 
per to make the discovery. My sister, you know, has 
been with her aunt, at Lyons, since she was a child, 
and you find every creature in the family takes you 
for her. 

Olivia. But mayn't she write, mayn't her aunt 
write ? 

Leontine. Her aunt scarce ever writes, and all my 
sister's letters are directed to me. 

Olivia. But won't your refusing Miss Richland, for 
whom you know the old gentleman intends you, create 
a suspicion ? 

Leontine. There, there 's my master-stroke. I have 
resolved not to refuse her ; nay, an hour hence I have 
consented to go with my father to make her an offer 
of my heart and fortune. 

Olivia. Your heart and fortune ? 

Leontine. Don't be alarmed, my dearest. Can 



THE G-OOD-NATURED MAN. 195 

Olivia think so meanly of nay honor, or my love, as to 
suppose I could ever hope for happiness from any but 
her ? No, my Olivia, neither the force, nor, permit me 
to add, the delicacy of my passion, leave any room to 
suspect me. I only offer Miss Richland a heart I am 
convinced she will refuse ; as I am confident, that, 
without knowing it. her affections are fixed upon Mr. 
Honeywood. 

Olivia. Mr. Honeywood ! You '11 excuse my appre- 
hensions ; but when your merits come to be put in the 
balance 

Leontine. You view them with too much partiality. 
However, by making this offer, I show a seeming com- 
pliance with my father's command ; and perhaps, upon 
her refusal, I rnay have his consent to choose for 
myself. 

Olivia. Well, I submit. And yet, my Leontine, 
I own, I shall envy her even your pretended addresses. 
I consider every look, every expression of your esteem, 
as due only to me. This is folly, perhaps ; I allow it ; 
but it is natural to suppose, that merit which has made 
an impression on one's own heart may be powerful over 
that of another. 

Leontine. Do n't, my life's treasure, do n't let us 
make imaginary evils, when you know we have so 
many real ones to encounter. At worst, you know, if 
Miss Richland should consent, or my father refuse his 
pardon, it can but end in a trip to Scotland ; and 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Where have you been, boy ? I have been 
seeking you. My friend Honeywood here has been 



196 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

saying such comfortable things ! Ah ! he 's an example 
indeed. Where is he? I left him here. 

Leoniine. Sir, I believe you may see him, and hear 
him too, in the next room : he 's preparing to go out 
with the ladies. 

Croaker. Good gracious ! can I believe my eyes or 
my ears : I 'm struck dumb with his vivacity, and 
stunned with the loudness of his laugh. Was there 
ever such a transformation ! (a laugh behind the scenes, 
Croaker mimics it. ) Ha ! ha ! ha ! there it goes ; a 
plague take their balderdash ! yet I could expect noth- 
ing less, when my precious wife was of the party. On 
my conscience, I believe she could spread a horse-laugh 
through the pews of a tabernacle. 

Leontine. Since you find so many objections to a 
wife, sir, how can you be so earnest in recommending 
one to me. 

Croaker. I have told you, and tell you again, boy, 
that Miss Richland's fortune must not go out of the 
family ; one may find comfort in the money, whatever 
one does in the wife. 

Leontine. But, sir, though in obedience to your 
desire, I am ready to marry her, it may be possible she 
has no inclination to me. 

Croaker. I '11 tell you once for all how it stands. A 
good part of Miss Richland's large fortune consists in 
a claim upon government, which my good friend, Mr. 
Lofty, assures me the Treasury will allow. One half 
of this she is to forfeit, by her father's will, in case she 
refuses to marry you. So, if she rejects you, we seize 
half her fortune ; if she accepts" you, we seize the 
svhole, and a fine girl into the bargain. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 197 



Leontine. But, sir, if you will listen to reason- 



Croaker. Come, then, produce your reasons. I tell 
you, I'm fixed, determined — so now produce your rea- 
sons. "When I am determined, I always listen to 
reason because it can then do no harm. 

Leontine. You have alleged that a mutual cboice 
was the first requisite in matrimonial happiness. 

Croaker. Well, and you have both of you a mutual 
choice. She has her choice, — to marry you or lose 
half her fortune ; and you have your choice, — to 
marry her, or pack out of doors, without any fortune 
at all. 

Leontine. An only son, sir, might expect more 
indulgence. 

Croaker. An only father, sir, might expect more 
obedience ; besides, has not your sister here, that never 
disobliged me in her life, as good a right as you ? He's 
a sad dog, Livy, my dear, and would take all from you. 
But he shan't, I tell you he shan't ; for you shall have 
your share. 

Olivia. Dear sir, I wish you'd be convinced, that 
I can never be happy in any addition to my fortune, 
which is taken from his. 

Croaker. Well, well, it 's a good child, so say no 
more ; but come with me, and we shall see something 
that will give us a great deal of pleasure, I promise 
you, — old Ruggins, the curry-comb maker, lying in 
state. I am told he makes a very handsome corpse, 
and becomes his coffin prodigiously. He was an inti- 
mate friend of mine, and these are friendly things we 
ought to do for each other. [LJxetznt, 

17* 



198 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

ACT SECOND. 

Scene — Croaker's house. 

Miss Richland, Garnet. 

Miss Richland. Olivia not his sister ! Olivia not 
Leontine's sister ? You amaze me. 

Garnet. No more his sister than I am ; I had it all 
from his own servant : I can get anything from that 
quarter. 

Miss Richland. But how ? Tell me again, Garnet. 

Garnet. Why, madam, as I told you before, instead 
of going to Lyons to bring home his sister, who has 
been there with her aunt these ten years, he never 
went farther than Paris ; there he saw and fell in love 
with this young lady — by the by, of a prodigious 
family. 

Miss Richland. And brought her home to my 
guardian as his daughter ? 

Garnet. Yes, and his daughter she will be. If he 
don't consent to their marriage, they talk of trying 
what a Scotch parson can do. 

Miss Richland. Well, I own they have deceived 
me. And so demurely as Olivia carried it too ! — 
Would you believe it, Garnet, I told her all my secrets ; 
and yet the sly cheat concealed all this from me ! 

Garnet. And, upon my word, madam, I do n't much 
blame her : she was loath to trust one with her secrets, 
that was so very bad at keeping her own. 

Miss Richland. But, to add to their deceit, the young 
gentleman, it seems, pretends to make me serious pro- 
posals. My guardian and he are to be here presently. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. !»» 

to open the affair in form. You know I am to lose 
half my fortune if I refuse him. 

Garnet. Yet, what can you do ? For being, as 
you are, in love with Mr. Honey wood, madam 

Miss Richland. How ! idiot, what do you mean ? 
In love with Mr. Honey wood! Is this to provoke me? 

Garnet. That is, madam, in friendship with him : 
I meant nothing more than friendship, as I hope to be 
married — nothing more. 

Miss Richland. Well, no more of this. As to my 
guardian and his son, they shall find me prepared to 
receive them : I'm resolved to accept their proposal 
with seeming pleasure, to mortify them by compliance 
and so throw the refusal at last upon them. 

Garnet Delicious ! and that will secure your whole 
fortune to yourself. Well, who could have thought so 
innocent a face could cover so much 'cuteness ! 

Miss Richland. Why, girl, I only oppose my pru- 
dence to their cunning, and practise a lesson they have 
taught me against themselves. 

Garnet. Then you're likely not long to want em- 
ployment, for here they come, and in close conference. 

Enter Croaker and Leontine. 

Leontine. Excuse me, sir, if I seem to hesitate 
upon the point of putting to the lady so important a 
question. 

Croaker. Lord ! good sir, moderate your fears ; 
you're so plaguy shy, that one would think you had 
changed sexes. I tell you we must have the half or 
the whole. Come, let me see with what spirit you be- 
gin : Well, why do n't you ? Eh ! What ? Well, then- 



200 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

I must, it seems — Miss Richland, my dear, I believe 
you guess at our business ; an affair which my son 
here comes to oi)en, that nearly concerns your happi- 
ness. 

Miss Richland. Sir, I should be ungrateful not to 
be pleased with anything that comes recommended by 
you. 

Croaker. How, boy, could you desire a finer open- 
ing ? Why do n't you begin, I say ? \_To Leontine. 

Leontine. 'Tis true, madam — my father, madam 

— has some intentions — hem — of explaining an 
affair, — which — himself can best explain, madam. 

Croaker. Yes, my dear ; it comes entirely from my 
son ; it 's all a request of his own, madam. And I 
will permit him to make the best of it. 

Leontine. The whole affair is only this, madam : 
my father has a proposal to make, which he insists 
none but himself shall deliver. 

Croaker. My mind misgives me, the fellow will 
never be brought on. {Aside.) In short, madam, you 
see before you one that loves you — one whose whole 
happiness is all in you. 

Miss Richland. I never had any doubts of your re- 
gards, sir ; and I hope you can have none of my duty. 

Croaker. That 's not the thing, my little sweeting 

— my love ! no, no, another guess lover than I : there 
he stands, madam ; his very looks declare the force of 
his passion — Call up a look, you dog ! {Aside.) But 
then, had you seen him, as I have, weeping, speaking 
soliloquies and blank verse, sometimes melancholy, 
and sometimes absent 

Miss Richland. I fear, sir, he's absent now ; ** 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 201 

such a declaration would have come most properly from 
himself. 

Croaker. Himself ! Madam, he would die before 
he could make such a confession ; and if he had not a 
channel for his passion through me, it would ere now 
have drowned his understanding. 

Miss Richland. I must grant, sir, there are attrac- 
tions in modest diffidence above the force of words. A 
silent address is the genuine eloquence of sincerity. 

Croaker. Madam, he has forgot to speak any other 
language ; silence is become his mother-tongue. 

Miss Richland. And it must be confessed, sir, it 
speaks very powerfully in his favor. And yet I shall 
be thought too forward in making such a confession ; 
shan't I, Mr. Leontine ? 

Leontine. Confusion ! my reserve will undo me. 
But, if modesty attracts her, impudence may disgust 
her. I'll try. (Aside.) Do n't imagine from my si- 
lence, madam, that I want a due sense of the honor 
and happiness intended me. My father, madam, tells 
me your humble servant is not totally indifferent to 
you — he admires you: I adore you; and when we 
come together, ujjon my soul, I believe we shall be the 
happiest couple in all St. James's. 

Miss Richland. If I could flatter myself you 
thought as you speak, sir 

Leontine. Doubt my sincerity, madam ? By your 
dear self I swear. Ask the brave if they desire glory ! 
ask cowards if they covet safety 

Croaker. Well, well, no more cmestions about it, 

Leontine. Ask the sick if they long for health ; asl< 
misers if they love money ? ask 



202 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Croaker. Ask a fool if he can talk nonsense ? 
What's come over the boy ? What signifies asking, 
when there's not a soul to give you an answer ? If 
you would ask to the purpose, ask this lady's consent 
to make you happy. 

Mis% Richland. Why, indeed, sir, his uncommon 
ardor almost compels me — forces me to reply. And 
yet I'm afraid he '11 despise a conquest gained with 
too much ease ; won 't you, Mr. Leontine ? 

Leontine. Confusion ! {Aside.) Oh, by no means, 
madam, by no means. And yet, madam, you talked 
of force. There is nothing I would avoid so much as 
compulsion in a thing of this kind. No, madam, I 
will still be generous, and leave you at liberty to re- 
fuse. 

Croaker. But I tell you, sir, the lady is not at lib- 
erty. It's a match. You see she says nothing. 
Silence gives consent. 

Leontine. But, sir, she talked of force. Consider, 
sir, the cruelty of constraining her inclinations. 

Croaker. But I say there 's no cruelty. Don't you 
know, blockhead, that girls have always a round-about 
way of saying yes before company ? So get y ou both 
gone together into the next room, and hang him that 
• interrupts the tender explanations. Get you gone, I 
say ; I'll not hear a word. 

Leontine. But, sir, I must beg leave to insist 

Croaker. Get off, you puppy, or I'll beg leave to 
insist upon knocking you down. Stupid whelp ! But 
I don't wonder: the boy takes entirely after his 
mother. \_Exeunt Miss Richland and Leontine. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 203 

Enter Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croaker. Mr. Croaker, I bring you something 
my dear, that I believe will make you smile. 

Croaker. I '11 hold you a guinea of that, my dear. 

Mrs. Croaker. A letter ; and as I knew the hand, 
I ventured to open it. 

Croaker. And how can you expect your breaking 
open my letters should give me pleasure ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Pooh ! it 's from your sister at Lyons, 
and contains good news : read it. 

Croaker. What a Frenchified cover is here ! That 
sister of miue has some good qualities ; but I could 
never teach her to fold a letter. 

Mrs. Croaker. Fold a fiddlestick ! Head what it 
contains. 

Croaker (reading.) 

' Dear Nick, — An English gentleman, of large for- 
tune, has for some time made private, though honora- 
ble, jjroposals to your daughter Olivia. They love 
each other tenderly, and I find she has consented, 
without letting any of the family know, to crown his 
addresses. As such good offers don't come every day, 
your own good sense, his large furtune, and family 
considerations, will induce you to forgive her. Yours 
ever. Rachael Croaker. 

My daughter Olivia privately contracted to a man of 
large fortune ! This is good news indeed. My heart 
never foretold me of this. And yet, how slyly the lit- 
tle baggage has carried it since she came home ; not a 



204 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

word on 't to the old ones for the world. Yet I thought 
I saw some thing she wanted to conceal. 

Mrs. Croaker. Well, if they have concealed their 
amour, they shan't conceal their wedding ; that shall 
be public, I'm resolved. 

Croaker. I tell thee, woman, the wedding is the 
most foolish part of the ceremony. I can never get 
this woman to think of the most serious part of the 
nuptial engagement. 

Mrs. Croaker. What ! would you have me think of 
their funeral ! But come, tell me, my dear, do n't you 
owe more to me than you care to confess ? — Would 
vou have ever been known to Mr. Lofty, who has un- 
dertaken Miss Richland's claim at the Treasury, but 
for me ? Who was it first made him an acquaintance 
at Lady Shabbaroon's rout. Who got him to promise 
us his interest ? Is not he a back-stair favorite — one 
that can do what he pleases with those that do what 
they please ? Is not he an acquaintance that all your 
groaning and lamentations could never have got us. 

Croaker. He is a man of importance, I grant you. 
And yet, what amazes me is, that, while he is giving 
away places to all the world, he can't get one for him- 
self.' 

Mrs. Croaker That, perhaps, may be owing to his 
nicety. Great men are not easily satisfied. 

Enter French Servant. 

Servant. An espresse from Monsieur Lofty. He 
vil be vait upon your honors instammant. He be only 
Sfivincr four five instruction, read two tree memorial. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 205 

call upon von ambassadeur. He vil be vid you in one 
tree minutes. 

Mrs. Croaker. You see now, nay dear. What an 
extensive department ! "Well, friend, let your master 
know that we are extremely honored by this honor. 
Was there anything ever in a higher style of breeding ? 
All messages among the great are now done by ex- 
press. \_JExit French Servant, 

Croaker. To be sure, no man does little things 
with more solemnity, or claims more respect than he. 
But he 's in the right on 't. In our bad world, respect 
is given where respect is claimed. 

Mrs. Croaker. Never mind the world, my dear ; 
you were never in a jjleasauter place in your life. Let 
us now think of receiving him with proper res|}ect, (a 
loud rapping at the door.) and there he is, by the thun 
dering rap. 

Croaker. Ay, verily, there he is ! as close upon the 
heels of his own express, as an endorsement upon the 
back of a bill. Well, I'll leave you to receive him, 
whilst I go to chide my little Olivia for intending to 
steal a marriage without mine or her aunt's consent. 
I must seem to be angry, or she too may begin to de- 
spise my authority. \_ExiL 

Enter Lofty ', speaking to his Servant. 

-Lofty. And if the Venetian ambassador, or that 
teasing creature, the Marquis, should call, I'm not at 
home. Damme, I 11 be pack-horse to none of them. 
— My dear madam, I have just snatched a moment — 
And if the expresses to his Grace be ready, let them 
18 



206 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

be sent off ; they are of importance. Madam, I ask 
ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 

Lofty. And, Dubardieu ? if the person calls about 
the commission, let him know that it is made out. As for 
Lord Cumbercourt's stale request, it can keep cold : you 
understand me. — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, this honor 

Lofty. And Dubardieu ! if the man comes from the 
Cornish borough, you must do him ; you must do him, 
I say — Madam, I ask ten thousand pardons. — And if 
the Russian ambassador calls ; but he will scarce call 
to-day, I believe. — And now, madam, I have just got 
time to express my happiness in having the honor of 
being permitted to profess myself your most obedient, 
humble servant. 

Mrs. Croaker. Sir, the happiness and honor are all 
mine ; and yet, I 'm only robbing the public while I 
detain you. 

Lofty. Sink the public, madam, when the fair are 
to be attended. Ah, could all my hours be so charm- 
ingly devoted ! Sincerely, do n't you pity us poor crea- 
tures in affairs ? Thus it is eternally ; solicited for 
places here, teased for pensions there, and courted 
everywhere. I know you pity me. Yes, I see you do. 

Mrs. Croaker. Excuse me, sir, ' Toils of empires 
pleasures are,' as Waller says. 

Lofty. Waller — Waller ; is he of the House ? 

Mrs. Croaker. The modern poet of that name, sir. 

Lofty. Oh, a modern ! We men of business despise 
the moderns ! and as for the ancients, we have no time 
to read them. Poetry is a pretty thing enough for our 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 207 

wives and daughters, but not for us. Why now, here I 
stand, that know nothing of books. I say, madam, I know 
nothing of books; and ye;, I believe, upon a land-carriage 
fishery, a stamp act, or a jaghire, I can talk my two 
hours without feeling the want of them. 

Mrs. Croaker. The world is no stranger to Mr. Lofty's 
eminence in every capacity. 

Lofty. I vow to gad, madam, you make me blush. 
I'm nothing, nothing, nothing in the world ; a mere obscure 
gentleman. To be sure, indeed, one or two of the pres- 
ent ministers are pleased to represent me as a formidable 
man. I know they are pleased to bespatter me at all 
their little, dirty levees. Yet, upon my soul, I wonder 
what they see in me to treat me so ! Measures, not men, 
have always been my mark, and I vow, by all that's 
honorable, my resentment has never done the men, as 
mere men, any manner of harm, — that is, as mere men. 

Mrs. Croaker. What importance, and yet what mod- 
esty ! 

Lofty. Oh, if you talk of modesty, madam, there I 
own I'm accessible to praise; modesty is my foible; it 
was so the Duke of Brentford used to say of me. I 'love 
Jack Lofty,' he used to say; 'no man has a finer knowl- 
edge of things : quite a man of information ; and when 
he speaks upon his legs, by the Lord, he's prodigious, — 
he scouts them ; and yet all men have their faults ; too 
much modesty is his,' says his Grace. 

Mrs. Croaker. And yet, I dare say, you don't want 
assurance when you come to solicit for your friends. 

Lofty. Oh, there, indeed, I'm in bronze. Apropos ! 
I have just been mentioning Miss Richland's case to a 



208 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

certain personage ; we must name no names. When I 
ask, I'm not to be put off, madam. No, no, I take my 
friend by the button. A fine girl, sir ; great justice in 
her case. A friend of mine. Borough interest. Busi- 
ness must be done, Mr. Secretary. I say, Mr. Secre- 
tary, her business must be done, sir. That's my way 
madam. 

Mrs. Croaker. Bless me ! you said all this to the 
Secretary of State, did you ? 

Lofty. I did not say the Secretary, did I ? Well, 
curse it, since you have found me out, I will not deny 
it, — it was to the Secretary. 

Mrs. Croaker. This was going to the fountain-head 
at once, not applying to the understrappers, as Mr. 
Honeywood would have had us. 

Lofty. Honeywood ! he ! he ! He was indeed a fine 
solicitor. I suppose you have heard what has just hap- 
pened to him ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Poor, dear man ! no accident, I hope? 

Lofty. Undone, madam, that's all. His creditors 
have taken him into custody — a prisoner in his own 
house. 

Mrs. Croaker. A prisoner in his own house ! How ? 
At this very time ? I'm cpaite unhappy for him. 

Lofty. Why, so am I. The man, to be sure, was 
immensely good-natured. But then, I could never find 
that he had anything in him. 

Mrs. Croaker. His manner, to be sure, was exces- 
sive harmless ; some, indeed, thought it a little dull. 
For my part, I always concealed my opinion. 

Lofty. It can't be concealed, madam ; the man was 
dull — dull as the last new comedy; a poor, impracti- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 209 

cable creature! I tried once or twice to know if he 
was fit for business ; but he had scarce talents to be 
groom-porter to an orange-barrow. 

Mrs, Croaker. How differently does Miss Richland 
think of him ! For, I believe, with all his faults, she 
loves him. 

Lofty. Loves him ! does she ? You should cure her 
of that by all means. Let me see ; what if she were 
sent to him this instant, in his present doleful situation? 
My life for it, that works her cure. Distress is a per- 
fect antidote to love. Suppose we join her in the 
next room ? Miss Richland is a fine girl, has a fine 
fortune, and must not be thrown away. Upon my 
honor, madam, I have a regard for Miss Richland ; and, 
rather than she should be thrown away I should think 
it no indignity to marry her myself. [Exeunt. 

Enter Olivia and Leontine. 

Leontine. And yet, trust me, Olivia, I had every 
reason to expect Miss Richland's refusal, as I did 
everything in my power to deserve it. Her indelicacy 
susprises me. 

Olivia. Sure, Leontine, there 's nothing so indeli- 
cate in being sensible of your merit. If so, I fear I 
shall be the most guilty thing alive. 

Leontine, But you mistake, my dear. The same 
attention I used to advance my merit with you, I prac- 
tised to lesson it with her. What more could I do ? 

Olivia. Let us now rather consider what is to be 
done. "We have both dissembled too long. I have 

18* 



210 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

always been ashamed — I am now quite weary of it- 
Sure, I could never have undergone so much for any 
other but you. 

Leontine. And you shall find my gratitude equal to 
your kindest compliance. Though our friends should 
totally forsake us, Olivia, we can draw uj>on content 
for the deficiencies of fortune. 

Olivia. Then why should we defer onr scheme of 
humble happiness, when it is now in our power ? I 
may be the favorite of your father, it is true ; but can 
it ever be thought, that his present kinduess to a sup- 
posed child, will continue to a known deceiver ? 

Leontine. I have many reasons to believe it will. 
As his attachments are but few, they are lasting. His 
own marriage was a private one, as ours may be. Be- 
sides, I have sounded him already at a distance, and 
find all his answers exactly to our wish. Nay, by an 
expression or two that dropped from him, I am in- 
duced to think he knows of this affair. 

Olivia. Indeed ! But that would be a happiness 
too great to be expected. 

Leontine. However it be, I'm certain you have 
power over him ; and am persuaded, if you informed 
him of our situation, that he would be disposed to par- 
don it. 

Olivia. You had equal expectations, Leontine, from 
your last scheme with Miss Richland, which you find 
has succeeded most wretchedly. 

Leontine. And that 's the best reason for trying an- 
other. 

Olivia. If it must be so, I submit. 

Leontine. As we could wish, he comes this way. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 211 

Now, my dearest piivia, be resolute. I'll just retire 
within hearing, to come in at a proper time, either to 
share your danger, or confirm your victory. [Exit. 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Yes, I must forgive her ; and yet not too 
easily, neither. It will be proper to keep up the deco- 
rums of resentment a little, if it be only to impress her 
with an idea of my authority. 

Olivia. How I tremble to approach him ! — Might 
I presume, sir — if I interrupt you 

Croaker. No, child, where I have an affection, it 
is not a little thing can interrupt me. Affection gets 
over little things. 

Olivia. Sir, you're too kind. I 'm sensible how ill 
I deserve this partiality ; yet, Heaven knows, there is 
nothing I would not do to gain it. 

Croaker. And you have but too well succeeded, you 
little hussy, you. With those endearing ways of yours, 
on my conscience, I could be brought to forgive any- 
thing, unless it were a very great offence indeed. 

Olivia. But mine is such an offence — When you 
know my guilt — Yes, you shall know it, though I feel 
the greatest pain in the confession. 

Croaker. Why, then, if it be so very great a pain, 
you may spare yourself the trouble ; for I know every 
syllable of the matter before you begin. 

Olivia. Indeed ! then I ! m undone. 

Croaker. Ay, miss, you wanted to steal a match, 
without letting me know it, did you ! But I 'm not 
worth being consulted, I suppose, when there 's to be 



212 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

a marriage in my own family. No, I 'm to have no 
hand in the disposal of my own children. No, I'm 
nobody. I 'm to be a mere article of family lumber ; 
a piece of cracked china, to be stuck up in a corner. 

Olivia. Dear sir, nothing but the dread of your au- 
thority could induce us to conceal it from you. 

Croaker. No, no, my consequence is no more ; I 'm 
as little minded as a dead Russian in winter, just stuck 
up with a pipe in its mouth till there comes a thaw 
— It goes to my heart to vex her. (Aside. 

Olivia. I was prepared, sir, for your anger, and 
despaired of pardon, even while I presumed to ask it. 
But your severity shall never abate my affection, as 
my punishment is but justice. 

Croaker. And yet you should not despair, neither, 
Livy. We ought to hope all for the best. 

Olivia. And do you permit me to hope, sir ? Can 
I ever expect to be forgiven ? But hope has too long 
deceived me. 

Croaker. Why then, child, it shan't deceive you 
now, for I forgive you this very moment ; I forgive 
you all ! and now you are indeed my daughter. 

Olivia. Oh transport! this kindness overpowers me. 

Croaker. I was always against severity to our chil- 
dren. We have been young and giddy ourselves, and we 
can't expect boys and girls to be old before their time. 

Olivia. What generosity ! But can you forget the 
many falsehoods, the dissimulation 

Croaker. You did indeed dissemble, you urchin, 
you ; but where 's the girl that won't dissemble for a 
husband ? My wife and I had never been married, if 
we had not dissembled a little beforehand. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 213 

Olivia. It shall be my future care never to put 
such generosity to a second trial. And as for the part- 
ner of my offence and folly, from his native honor, 
and the just sense he has of his duty, I can answer for 

him that 

Enter Leontine. 

Leontine. Permit him thus to answer for himself. 
(Kneeling.) Thus, sir, let me speak my gratitude for 
this unmerited forgiveness. Yes, sir, this even exceeds 
all your former tenderness : I now can boast the most 
indulgent of fathers. The life he gave, compared to 
this, was but a trifling blessing. 

Croaker. And, good sir, who sent for you, with that 
fine tragedy face, and nourishing manner ? I do n't 
know what we have to do with your gratitude upon 
this occasion. 

Leontine. How, sir ! is it possible to be silent, when 
so much obliged ? Would you refuse me the pleasure 
of being grateful ? of adding my thanks to my Olivia's ? 
of sharing in the transports that you have thus occa- 
sioned ? 

Croaker. Lord, sir, we can be happy enough with- 
out your coming in to make up the party. I do n't 
know what's the matter with the boy all this day ; he has 
got into such a rhodomontade manner all this morning! 

Leontine. But, sir, I that have so large a part in the 
benefit, is it not my duty to show my joy ? Is the be- 
ing admitted to your favor so slight an obligation ? Is 
the happiness of marrying Olivia so small a blessing? 

Croaker. Marrying Olivia ! marrying Olivia ! marry- 
ing his own sister ! Sure the boy is out of his senses. 
His own sister! 



214 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Leontine. My sister ! 

Olivia. Sister ! how have I been mistaken ! [Aside. 

Leontine. Some cursed mistake in all this I find. 

[Aside. 

Croaker. What does the booby mean ? or has he any 
meaning ? Eh, what do you mean, you blockhead, you ? 

Leontine. Mean, sir? — why, sir — only when my 
sister is to be married, that I have the pleasure of mar- 
rying her, sir, — that is, of giving her away, sir, — I 
have made a point of it. 

Croaker. Oh, is that all ? Give her away. You 
have made a point of it ? Then you had as good make 
a point of first giving away yourself, as I 'm going to 
prepare the writings between you and Miss Richland 
this very minute. What a fuss is here about nothing ! 
Why what 's the matter now ? I thought I had made 
you at least as happy as you could wish. 

Olivia. Oh, yes, sir ; very happy. 

Croaker. Do you foresee any thing, child ? You look 
as if you did. I think if any thing was to be foreseen, 
I have as sharp a look-out as another ; and yet I fore- 
see nothing. [Exit, 
Leontine and Olivia. 

Olivia. What can it mean ? 

Leontine. He knows something, and yet, for my life, 
I can't tell what. 

Olivia. It can't be the connection between us, I'm 
pretty certain. 

Leontine. Whatever it be, my dearest, I'm resolved 
to put it out of fortune's power to repeat our mortifi- 
cation. I II haste and prepare for our journey to Scot- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 215 

land, this very evening. My friend Honeywood has 
promised me his advice and assistance. I '11 go to him 
and repose our distresses on his friendly bosom ; and I 
know so much of his honest heart, that if he can 't re- 
lieve our uneasiness, he will at least share them. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT THIRD. 

Scene.— young honeywood's house. 
Bailiff, Honeywood, Follotoer. 

Bailiff. Lookye, sir, I have arrested as good men 
as you in my time — no disparagement of you neither 
— men that would go forty guineas on a game of crib- 
bage. I challenge the town to show a man in more 
genteeler practice than myself. 

Honeywood. Without all question, Mr. I for- 
get your name, sir. 

Bailiff. How can you forget what you never knew ? 
he ! he ! he ! 

Honeywood. May I beg leave to ask your name ? 

Bailiff. Yes, you may. 

Honeywood. Then, pray sir, what is your name ? 

Bailiff. That I did n't promise to tell you. — He ! 
he ! he ! — A joke breaks no bones, as we say among 
us that practise the law. 

Honeywood. You may have reason for keeping it a 
secret, perhaps ? 

Bailiff. The law does nothing without reason. I'm 
ashamed to tell my name to no man, sir. If you can 



216 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

show cause, as why, upon a special capus, that I 
should prove my name — But, come, Timothy Twitch 
is my name. And, now you know my name, what have 
you to say to that ? 

Honeywood. Nothing in the world, good Mr. Twitch, 
hut that I have a favor to ask, that's all. 

Bailiff. Ay, favors are more easily asked than 
granted, as we say among us that practise the law. I 
have taken an oath against granting favors. Would 
you have me perjure myself? 

Honeyivood. But my request will come recommend- 
ed in so strong a manner, as, I believe, you '11 have no 
scruple (pulling out his purse.) The thing is only this : 
I believe I shall be able to discharge this trifle in two or 
three days at farthest ; but as I would not have the 
affair known for the world, I have thoughts of keeping 
you, and your good friend here, about me. till the debt 
is discharged ; for which I shall be properly grateful. 

Bailiff. Oh ! that's another maxum, and altogether 
within my oath. For certain, if an honest man is to 
get any thing b^y a thing, there's no reason why all 
things should not be done in civility. 

Honeyivood. Doubtless, all trades must live, Mr. 
Twitch ; and yours is a necessary one. [ Gives him money. 

Bailiff. Oh ! your honor ; I hope your honor takes 
nothing amiss as I does, as I does nothing but my duty 
in so doing. I 'm sure no man can say I ever give a 
gentleman, that was a gentleman, ill usage. If I saw 
that a gentleman was a gentleman, I have taken money 
not to see him for ten weeks together. 

Honeyivood. Tenderness is a virtue, Mr. Twitch. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 217 

Bailiff. Ay, sir, it's a perfect treasure. I love to 
see a gentleman with a tender heart. I don't know, 
but I think I have a tender heart myself. If all that 
I have lost by my heart was put together, it would 
make a — but no matter for that. 

Honeywood. Do n't account it lost, Mr. Twitch. 
The ingratitude of the world can never deprive us of 
the conscious happiness of having acted with humanity 
ourselves. 

Bailiff. Humanity, sir, is a jewel. It 's better 
than gold. I love humanity. People may say, that 
we in our way have no humanity ; but I'll show you 
my humanity this moment. There's my follower here, 
little Flanigan, with a wife and four children — a 
guinea or two would be more to him, than twice as 
much to another. Now, as I can't show him an hu- 
manity myself, I must beg leave you'll do it for me. 

Honeywood. I assure you, Mr. Twitch, yours is a 
most powerful recommendation. 

[ Giving money to the follower. 

Bailiff. Sir, you 're a gentleman. I see you know 
what to do with your money. But, to business ; we 
are to be with you here as your friends, I suppose 
But set in case company comes. Little Flanigan here 
to be sure, has a good face — a very good face; biv 
then, he is a little seedy, as we say among us that prat, 
tise the law, — not well in clothes. Smoke the pockex 
holes. 

Honeywood. Well, that shall be remedied withon 
delay. 

19 



218 THE GOOD-NATUBED MAN 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Sir, Miss Richland is below. 

Honeywood. How uiiluckey ! Detain her a moment. 
We must improve my good friend little Mr. Flanigan's 
appearance first. Here, let Mr. Flanigan have a suit 
of my clothes — quick — the brown and silver — Do 
you hear ? 

Servant. That your honor gave away to the begging 
gentleman that makes verses, because it was as good 
as new. 

Honeywood. The white and gold then. 

Servant. That, your honor, I made bold to sell, be- 
cause it was good for nothing. 

Honeywood. "Well, the first that comes to hand then 
— the blue and gold. I believe Mr. Flanigan would 
look best in blue. \_Exit Flanigan. 

Bailiff. Rabbit me, but little Flanigan will look 
well in anything. Ah, if your honor knew that bit of 
flesh as well as I do, you'd be perfectly in love with 
him. There 's not a prettier scout in the four counties 
after a shy-cock than he : scents like a hound — sticks 
like a weasal. He was master of the ceremonies to 
the black Queen of Morocco, when I took him to fol- 
low me. {Re-enter Flanigan.) Heh ! ecod, I think he 
looks so well, that I don't care if I have a suit from 
the same place for myself. 

Honeywood. "Well, well, I hear the lady coming. 
Dear Mr. Twitch, I beg you '11 give your friend direc- 
tions not to speak. As for yourself, I know you will 
say nothing without being directed. 

Bailiff. Never you rear me ; I '11 show the lady I 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 219 

have something to say for myself as well as another. 
One man has one way of talking, another man has an- 
other, that's all the difference between them. 

Enter Miss Richland and Garnet. 

Miss Richland. You '11 be surprised, sir, with this 
visit. But you know I'm yet to thank you for choos- 
ing my little library. 

Honeywood. Thanks, madam, are unnecessary ; aj 
it was I that was obliged by your commands. Chairs 
here. Two of my very good friends, Mr. Twitch and 
Mr. Flanigan. Pray, gentlemen, sit without ceremony. 

Miss Richland. "Who can these odd-looking men be ? 
I fear it is as I was informed. It must be so. [Aside. 

Bailiff. (After a pause.) Pretty weather; very 
pretty weather for the time of the year, madam. 

Folloioer. Yery good circuit weather in the country. 

Honeywood. You officers are generally favorites 
among the ladies. My friends, madam, have been upon 
very disagreeable duty, I assure you. The fair should, 
in some measure, recompense the toils of the brave. 

Miss Richland. Our officers do indeed deserve every 
favor. The gentlemen are in the marine service, I pre- 
sume, sir? 

Honeywood. Why, madam, they do — occasionally 
serve in the fleet, madam. A dangerous service ! 

Miss Richland. I 'm told so. And I own it has 
often surprised me, that while we have had so many in- 
stances of bravery there, we have had so few of wit at 
home to praise it. 

Honeywood. I grant, madam, that our poets have not 



220 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

written as our sailors have fought ; but they have done 
all they could, and Hawke or Amherst could do no more. 

Miss Richland. I 'm quite displeased when I see a 
fine subject spoiled by a dull writer. 

Honeyivood. We should not be so severe against 
dull writers, madam. It is ten to one but the dullest 
writer exceeds the most rigid French critic who pre- 
sumes to despise him. 

Follower. Damn the French, the parle vous, and 
all that belongs to them J 

Miss Richland. Sir! 

Honeywood. Ha, ha, ha ! honest Mr. Flanigan. A 
true English officer, madam ; he 's not contented with 
beating the French, but he will scold them too. 

Miss Richland. Yet, Mr. Honeywood, this does not 
convince me but that severity in criticism is necessary. 
It was our first adopting the severity of French taste, 
that has brought them in turn to taste us. 

Bailiff. Taste us ! By the Lord, madam, thev de- 
vour us. Give Mounseers but a taste, and I'll be 
damn'd but they come in for a bellyfull. 

Miss Richland. Very extraordinary this ! 

Follower. But very true. What makes the bread 
rising ? the parle vous that devour us. What makes 
the mutton fivepence a pound ? the parle vous that eat 
it up. What makes the beer threepence-halfpenny a 
pot? 

Honeywood. Ah ! the vulgar rogues ; all will be out 
(Aside.) Right, gentlemen, very right, upon my word, 
and quite to the purpose. They draw a parallel, madam, 
between the mental taste and that of our senses. We 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 221 

are injured as much by the French severity in the one, as 
by French rapacity in the other. That 's their meaning. 
Miss Richland. Though I don't see the force of the 
parallel, yet I'll own, that we should sometimes par- 
don books, as we do our friends, that have now and 
then agreeable absurdities to recommend them. 

Bailiff. That's all my eye. The King only can 

pardon, as the law says : for, set in case 

. Honeyivood. I 'm quite of your opinion, sir. I see 
the whole drift of your argument. Yes, certainly, our 
presuming to pardon any work, is arrogating a power 
that belongs to another. If all have power to condemn 
what writer can be free ? 

Bailiff. By his habus corpus. His habus corpus 

can set him free at any time : for, set in case 

Honeyivood. I'm obliged to you, sir, for the hint. 
If, madam, as my friend observes, our laws are so care- 
ful of a gentlemen's person, sure we ought to be equal- 
ly careful of his dearer part, his fame. 

Follower. Ay, but if so be a man's nabb'd, you 

know 

Honeywood. Mr. Flanigan, if you spoke forever, 
you could not improve the last observation. For my 
own part, I think it conclusive. 

Bailiff. As for the matter of that, mayhap 

Honeyivood. Nay, sir, give me leave, in this instance, 
to be positive. For where is the necessity of censur- 
ing works without genius, which must shortly sink oi 
themselves ? what is it, but aiming an unnecessary blow 
against a victim already under the hands of justice ? 
Bailiff. Justice ! Oh, by the elevens ! if you talh 
19* 



222 THE GOOD-NATURED 3IAN= 

about justice, I think I am at home there : for, in a 
course of law 

Honeywood. My clear Mr. Twitch, I discern what 
you 'cl be at, perfectly ; and I believe the lady must be 
sensible of the art with which it is introduced. I suppose 
you perceive the meaning, madam, of his course of law. 

Miss Richland. I protest, sir, I do not. I perceive 
only that you answer one gentleman before he has 
finished, and the other before he has well begun. 

Bailiff. Madam, you are a gentlewoman, and I 
will make the matter out. This here question is about 
severity, and justice, and pardon, and the like of they. 
Now, to explain the thing 

Honeywood. Oh ! curse your explanations ! [Aside. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Mr. Leontine, sir, below, desires to speak 
with you upon earnest business. 

Honeywood. That's lucky. {Aside.*) Dear madam 
you '11 excuse me and my good friends here, for a few 
minutes. There are books, madam, to amuse you. 
Come, gentlemen, you know I make no ceremony with 
such friends. After you, sir. Excuse me. Well, if 
I must. But I know your natural politeness. 

Bailiff. Before and behind, you know. 

Follower. Ay, ay, before and behind, before and be- 
hind. [Exeunt Honeywood, Bailiff, and Follower. 

3fiss Richland. What can all this mean, Garnet ? 

Garnet. Mean, madam ! why, what should it mean, 
but what Mr. Lofty sent you here to see ? These peo- 
ple he calls officers, are officers sure enough : sheriff's 
officers — bailiffs, madam. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 223 

Miss Richland. Ay, it is certainly so. Well, though 
his perplexities are far from giving me pleasure, yet I 
own there is something very ridiculous in them, and a 
just punishment for his dissimulation. 

Garnet. And so they are : but I wonder, madam, 
that the lawyer you just employed to pay his debts and 
set him free, has not done it by this time. He ought 
at least to have been here before now. But lawyers 
are always more ready to get a man into troubles than 
out of them. 

Enter Sir William. 

Sir William. For Miss Richland to' undertake set- 
ting him free, I own, was quite unexpected. It has to- 
tally unhinged rny schemes to reclaim him. Yet it 
gives me pleasure to find, that among a number of worth- 
less friendships, he has made one acquisition of real 
value ; for there must be some softer passion on her 
side, that prompts this generosity. Ha ! here before 
me ? I'll endeavor to sound her affections. Madam, as 
I urn the person that have had some demands upon the 
gentleman of this house, I hope you'll excuse me, if, 
before I enlarged him, I wanted to see yourself. 

Miss Richland. The precaution was very unnecessa- 
ry, sir. I suppose your wants were only such as my 
agent had power to see yourself. 

Sir William. Partly, madam. But I was also will- 
ing you should be fully apprized of the character of 
the gentleman you intended to serve. 

Miss Richland. It must come, sir, with a very ill 
grace from you. To censure it, after what you have 
done, would look like malice ; and to speak favorably 



224 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

of a character you have oppressed, would be impeach- 
ing your own. And sure his tenderness, his human- 
ity, his universal friendship, may atone for many faults. 

Sir William. That friendship, madam, which is ex- 
erted in too wide a sphere, becomes totally useless. 
Our bounty, like a drop of water, disappears when dif- 
fused too widely. They who pretend most to this uni- 
versal benevolence, are either deceivers or dupes, — 
men who desire to cover their private ill-nature by a 
pretended regard for all, or men, who, reasoning them- 
selves into false feelings, are more earnest in pursuit 
of splendid, than of useful, virtues. 

Miss Richland. I am surprised, sir, to hear one, 
who has probably been a gainer by the folly of others, 
so severe in his censure of it. 

Sir William. Whatever I have gained by folly, mad- 
am, you see I am willing to prevent your losing by it. 

Miss Richland. Your cares for me, sir, are unne- 
cessary ; I always suspect those services which are de- 
nied where they are wanted, and offered, perhaps, in 
hopes of a refusal. No, sir, my directions have been 
given, and I insist upon their being complied with. 

Sir William. Thou amiable woman ! I can no long- 
er contain the expressions of my gratitude — my pleas- 
ure. You see before you one who has been equally 
careful of his interest ; one who has for some time been 
a concealed spectator of his follies, and only punished 
in hopes to reclaim them, — his uncle! 

Miss Richland. Sir William Honey wood ! You 
amaze me. How shall I conceal my confusion ? I 
fear, sir, you '11 think I have been too forward in my 
services. I confess I 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 225 

Sir William. Don't make any apologies, madam. 
I only find myself unable to repay the obligation. And 
yet, I have been trying my interest of late to serve 
you. Having learned, madam, that you had some de- 
mands upon Government, I have, though unasked, been 
your solicitor there. 

Miss Richland. Sir, I'm infinitely obliged to your 
intentions. But my guardian has employed another 
gentlemen, who assures him of success. 

Sir William. Who, the important little man that 
visits here ? Trust me, madam, he 's quite contempti- 
ble among men in power, and utterly unable to serve 
you. Mr. Lofty's promises are much better known to 
people of fashion than his person, I assure you. 

Miss Richland. How have we been deceived ! As 
sure as can be, here he comes. 

Sir William. Does he ? Remember I'm to con- 
tinue unknown. My return to England has not as yet 
^een made public. With what impudence he enters ! 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Let the chariot — let my chariot drive off ; 
i '11 visit to his Grace's in a chair. Miss Richland here 
before me ! Punctual as usual, to the calls of humanity. 
t 'm very sorry, madam, things of this kind should hap- 
pen, especially to a man I have shown everywhere, 
and carried amongst us as a particular acquaintance. 

Miss Richland. I find, sir, you have the art of 
making the misfortunes of others your own. 

Lofty. My dear madam, what can a private man 



226 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

like me do ? One man can' t do everything ; and then 1 
do so much in this way every day. Let me see — some- 
thing considerable might be done for him by subscrip- 
tion ; it could not fail if I carried the list. I'll under- 
take to set down a brace of dukes, two dozen lords, 
and half the Lower house, at my own peril. 

Sir William. And, after all, it's more than proba- 
ble, sir, he might reject the offer of such powerful pat- 
ronage. 

Lofty. Then, madam, what can we do ? You know 
I never make promises. In truth, I once or twice tried 
to do something with him in the way of business ; but 
as I often told his uncle, Sir William Honeywood, the 
man was impracticable. 

Sir William. His uncle ! then that gentleman, I 
suppose, is a particular friend of yours. 

Lofty. Meaning me, sir ? Yes, madam, as I often 
said, My dear Sir William, your are sensible I would do 
anything, as far as my poor interest goes, to serve 
your family : but what can be done ? there 's no pro- 
curing first-rate places for ninth-rate abilities. 

Miss Richland. I have heard of Sir William Hon- 
eywood ; he 's abroad in employment : he confided in 
your judgment, I suppose? 

Lofty. Why, yes, madam, I believe Sir William 
had some reason to confide in my judgment — one lit- 
tle reason, perhaps. 

Miss Richland. Pray, sir, what was it ? 

Lofty. Why, madam, — but let it go no farther-— 
it was I procured him his place. 

Sir William. Did you, sir ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 227 

Lofty. Either you or I, sir ? 

Miss Richland. This, Mr. Lofty, was very kind in- 
deed. 

Lofty. I did love him, to be sure ; he had souk- 
amusing qualities ; no man was fitter to be a toast mas- 
ter to a club, or had a better head. 

Miss Richland. A better head ? 

Lofty. Ay, at a bottle. To be sure he was as dull 
as a choice spirit ; but hang it, he was grateful, very 
grateful ; and gratitude hides a multitude of faults. 

Sir William. He might have reason, perhaps. His 
place is pretty considerable, I'm told. 

Lofty. A trifle, a mere trifle among us men of busi- 
ness. The truth is, he wanted dignity to fill up a greater. 

Sir William. Dignity of person, do you mean, sir? 
I 'm told he 's much about my size and figure, sir? 

Lofty. Ay, tall enough for a marching regiment ; 
but then he wanted a something — a consequence of 
form — a kind of a — I believe the lady perceives my 
meaning. 

Miss Richland. Oh, perfectly ! you courtiers can 
do anything, I see. 

Lofty. My dear madam, all this is but a mere ex- 
change ; we do greater things for one another every 
day. Why, as thus, now: Let me suppose you the 
First Lord of the Treasury ; you have an employment 
in you that I want — I have a place in me that you 
want ; do me here, do you there : interest of both sides, 
few woz'ds, flat, done and done, and it's over. 

Sir William. A thought strikes me. {Aside.) Now 
you mention Sir William Honeywood, madam, and as 



228 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

he seems, sir, an acquaintance of yours, you'll be glad 
to hear he is arrived from Italy : I had it from a friend 
who knows him as well as he does me, and you may 
depend on my information. 

Lofty. (Aside.) The devil he is ! If I had known 
that, we should not have been quite so well acquainted. 

Sir William. He is certainly returned ; and as this 
gentleman is a friend of yours, he can be of signal ser- 
vice to us, by introducing me to him : there are some 
papers relative to your affairs that require despatch, 
and his inspection. 

Miss Richland- This gentleman, Mr. Lofty, is a 
person employed in my affairs — I know you'll serve us. 

Lofty. My dear madam, I live but to serve you. 
Sir William shall even wait upon him, if you think 
proper to command it. 

Sir William. That would be quite unnecessary. 

Lofty. Well, we must introduce you then. Call 
qpon me — let me see — ay, in two days. 

Sir William. Now, or the opportunity will be lost 
forever. 

Lofty. Well, if it must be now, now let it be ; but 
iamn it, that 's unfortunate : My Lord Grig's cursed 
t^ensacola business comes on this very hour, and I'm 
engaged to attend — another time 

Sir William. A short letter to Sir William will do. 

Lofty. You shall have it ; yet in my opinion, a 
tetter is a very bad way of going to work ; face to face 
that 's my way. 

Sir William. The letter, sir, will do quite as well. 

Lofty. Zounds ! sir, do you pretend to direct me ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 229 

direct me in the business of office ? Do you know me, 
sir ? who am I ? 

Miss Richland. Dear Mr. Lofty, this request is not 

so much his as mine; if my commands but you 

despise my power. 

Lofty. Delicate creature! — your commands could 
even control a debate at midnight : to a power so con- 
stitutional, I am all obedience and tranquility. He 
shall have a letter : where is my secretary ? Dubardieu. 
And yet, I protest, I do n't like this way of doing busi- 
ness. I think if I first spoke to Sir "William — but you 
will have it so. [Exit with Miss Richland. 

Sir William. {Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! This too is 
one of my nephew's hopeful associates. vanity ! thou 
constant deceiver, how do all thy efforts to exalt serve 
but to sink us ! Thy false colorings, like those em- 
ployed to heighten beauty, only seem to mend that 
bloom which they contribute to destroy. I 'in not dis- 
pleased at this interview ; exposing this fellow's impu- 
dence to the contempt it deserves, may be of use to my 
design ; at least, if he can reflect, it will be of use to 
himself. {Enter Jarvis.) How now, Jarvis, where 's 
your master, my nephew ? 

Jarvis. At his wit's end, I believe : he's scarce got- 
ten out of one scrape, but he 's running his head into 
another. 

Sir William. How so ? 

Jarvis. The house has but just been cleared of the 
bailiffs, and now he's again engaging, tooth and nail, 
in assisting old Croaker's son to patch up a clandes- 
tine match with the young lady that passes in the 
house for his sister. 20 



230 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Sir William. Ever busy to serve others. 

Jarvis. Ay, anybody but himself. The young 
couple, it seems, are just setting out for Scotland ; and 
he supplies them with money for the journey. 

Sir William. Money ! how is he able to supply 
others who has scarce any for himself ? 

Jarvis. Why, there it is : he has no money, that's 
true, but then, as he never said No to any request in 
his life, he has given them a bill, drawn by a friend of 
his upon a merchant in the city, which I am to get 
changed ; for you must know that I am to go with them 
to Scotland myself. 

Sir William. How ? 

Jarvis. It seems the young gentleman is obliged to 
take a different road from his mistress, as he is to call 
upon an uncle of his that lives out of the way, in order 
to prepare a place for their reception when they return ; 
so they have borrowed me from my master, as the 
properest person to attend the young lady to town. 

Sir William. To the land of matrimony ! A pleas- 
ant journey, Jarvis. 

Jarvis. Ay, but I 'm only to have all the fatigues 
on't. 

Sir William. "Well, it may be shorter, and less 
fatiguing, than you imagine. I know but too much of 
the young lady's family and connections, whom I have 
seen abroad. I have also discovered that Miss Rich- 
land is not indifferent to my thoughtless nephew; and 
will endeavor though I fear in vain, to establish that 
connection. But come, the letter I wait for must be 
almost finished ; I'll let you farther into my intentions 
in the next room. \Exeunt. 



THE GOOD-MATURED MAN. 231 

ACT FOURTH. 

Scene — Croaker's House. 
Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. "Well, sure the devil 's in nie of late, for run- 
ning rny head into such defiles, as nothing but a genius 
like my own could draw me from. I was formerly con- 
tented to husband out my places and pensions with some 
degree of frugality ; but curse it, of late I have given 
away the whole Court Register in less time than they 
could print the title-page ; yet, hang it, why scruple a 
lie or two to come at a fine girl, when I every day tell 
a thousand for nothing ? Ha ! Honey wood here before 
me. Could Miss Richland have set him at liberty ? 
{Enter Honeyivood.) Mr. Honeywood, I'm glad to see 
you abroad again. I find my concurrence was not 
necessary in your unfortunate affairs. I had put things 
in a train to do your business ; but it is not for me to 
say what I intended doing. 

Honeywood. It was unfortunate, indeed, sir. But 
what adds to my uneasiness is, that while you seem to 
be acquainted with my misfortune, I myself continue 
still a stranger to my benefactor. 

Lofty. How ! not know the friend that served you ? 

Honeyivood. Can't guess at the person. 

Lofty. Inquire. 

Honeywood. I have ; but all I can learn is, that he 
chooses to remain concealed, and that all inquiry must 
be fruitless. 



232 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Lofty. Must be fruitless ? 

Honeywood. Absolutely fruitless. 

Lofty. Sure of that ? 

Honeywood. Very sure. 

Lofty. Then I '11 be damn'd if you shall ever know 
it from me. 

Honeywood. How, sir ? 

Lofty. I suppose now, Mr. Honeywood, you think 
my rent-roll very considerable, and that I have vast 
sums of money to throw away ; I know you do. The 
world, to be sure, says such things of me. 

Honeywood. The world, by what I learn, is no 
stranger to your generosity. But where does this tend ? 

Lofty. To nothing — nothing in the world. The 
town, to be sure, when it makes such a thing as me 
the subject of conversation, has asserted that I never 
yet patronized a man of merit. 

Honeywood. I have heard instances to the contrary, 
even from yourself. 

Lofty. Yes, Honeywood ; and there are instances 
to the contrary, that you shall never hear from myself. 

Honeywood. Ha ! dear sir, permit me to ask you 
but one question. 

Lofty. Sir, ask me no questions ; I say, sir, ask me 
no questions ; I '11 be damn'd if I answer them. 

Honeywood. I will ask no farther. My friend ! 
my benefactor ! it is, it must be here, that I am indebted 
for freedom — for honor. Yes, thou worthiest of men, 
from the beginning I suspected it, but was afraid to 
return thanks ; which, if undeserved, might seem re- 
proaches. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 233 

Lofty. I protest I do not understand all this, Mr. 
Honeywood : you treat me very cavalierly. I do as- 
sure you, sir — Blood, sir. can't a man be permitted to 
enjoy the luxury of his own feelings, without all this 
parade ? 

Honeywood. Nay, do not attempt to conceal an ac- 
tion that adds to your honor. Your looks, your air, 
your manner, all confess it. 

Lofty. Confess it, sir ! torture itself, sir, shall never 
bring me to confess it. Mr. Honeywood, I have ad- 
mitted you upon terms of friendship. Don't let us 
fall out ; make me happy, and let this be buried in ob- 
livion. You know I hate ostentation ; you know I do. 
Come, come, Honeywood. you know I always loved to 
be a friend, and not a patron. I beg this may make 
no kind of distance between us. Come, come, you and 
I must be more familiar — indeed we must. 

Honeywood. Heavens ! Can I ever repay such 
friendship ? Is there any way ? Thou best of men, 
can I ever return the obligation ? 

Lofty. A bagatelle, a mere bagatelle ! But I see 
your heart is laboring to be grateful. You shall be 
grateful. It would be cruel to disappoint you. 

Honeywood. How ? teach me the manner. Is there 
any way ? 

Lofty. From this moment you're mine. Yes, my 
friend, you shall know it — I 'm in love. 

Honeywood. And can I assist you. 

Lofty. Nobody so well. 

Honeyivood. In what manner ? I 'm all impatience. 

Lofty. You shall make love for me. 
20* 



234 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. And to whom shall I speak in your 
favor ? 

Lofty. To a lady with whom you have a great in- 
terest, I assure you — Miss Richland. 

Honeywood. Miss Richland ! 

Lofty. Yes, Miss Richland. She has struck the 
blow up to the hilt in my bosom, by Jupiter. 

Honeywood. Heavens ! was ever any thing more 
unfortunate ? It is too much to be endured. 

Lofty. Unfortunate, indeed ! And yet I can en- 
dure it, till you have opened the affair to her for me. 
Between ourselves, I think she likes me. I'm not apt 
to boast, but I think she does. 

Honeywood. Indeed ! But do you know the per- 
son you apply to ? 

Lofty. Yes, I know you are her friend and mine : 
that's enough. To you, therefore, I commit the suc- 
cess of my passion. I'll say no more, let friendship do 
the rest. I have only to add, that if at any time my 
little interest can be of service — but, hang it, I'll make 
no promises : you know my interest is yours at any 
time. No apologies, my friend, I '11 not be answered ; 
It shall be so. \_Exit. 

Honeyivood. Open, generous, unsuspecting man ! 
He little thinks that I love her too ; and with such an 
ardent passion ! But then it was ever but a vain and 
hopeless one : my torment, my persecution ! What 
shall I do ? Love, friendship ; a hopeless passion, a 
deserving friend ! Love that has been my tormenter ; 
a friend that has perhaps distressed himself to serve 
me. It shall be so. Yes, I will discard the fondling 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 235 

hope from my bosom, and exert all my influence in his 
favor. And yet to see her in the possession of another ! 
— Insupportable ! But then to betray a generous, 
trusting friend ! — Worse, worse ! Yes, I'm resolved. 
Let me but be the instrument of their happiness, and 
then quit a country, where I must forever despair of 
finding my own. \_Exit. 

Enter Olivia and Garnet, who carries a milliner's box. 

Olivia. Dear me, I wish this journey were over. 
No news of Jarvis yet ? I believe the old peevish crea- 
ture delays purely to vex me. 

Garnet. Why, to be sure, madam, I did hear him 
say, a little snubbing before marriage would teach you 
to bear it the better afterwards. 

Olivia. To be gone a full hour, though he had only 
to get a bill changed in the city ! How provoking ! 

Garnet. I'll lay my life, Mr. Leontine, that had 
twice as much to do, is setting off by this time, from 
his inn and here you are left behind. 

Olivia. Well, let us be prepared for his coming, 
however. Are you sure you have omitted nothing, 
Garnet ? 

Garnet. Not a stick, madam ; all's here. Yet I 
wish you could take the white and silver to be married 
in. It 's the worst luck in the world in anything but 
white. I knew one Bett Stubbs of our town, that was 
married in red ; and as sure as eggs is eggs, the bride- 
groom and she had a miff before morning. 

Olivia. No matter, I 'm all impatience till we are 
out of the house. 



236 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Garnet. Bless me, madam, I had almost forgot the 
wedding ring ! The sweet little thing. I do n't think 
it would go on my little finger. And what if I put in 
a gentleman's night-cap, in case of necessity, madam ? 
— But here 's Jarvis. 

Enter Jarvis. 

Olivia. Jarvis, are you come at last ! We have 
been ready this half hour. Now let 's be going. Let 
us fly ! 

Jarvis. Ay, to Jericho ; for we shall have no going 
to Scotland this bout, I fancy. 

Olivia. How ! what's the matter ? 

Jarvis. Money, money is the matter, madam. We 
have got no money. What the plague do you send me 
of your fool's errand for ? My master's bill upon the 
city is not worth a rush. Here it is ; Mrs. Garnet 
maj r pin up her hair with it. 

Olivia. Undone ! How could Honeywood serve us 
so ? What shall we do ? Can 't we go without it ? 

Jarvis. Go to Scotland without money ! To Scot- 
land without money ! Lord ! how some people under- 
stand geography ! We might as well set sail for Pata- 
gonia upon a cork-jacket. 

Olivia. Such a disappointment ! What a base, in- 
sincere man was your master, to serve us in this man- 
ner. Is this his good-nature ? 

Jarvis. Nay, don't talk ill of my master, madam; 
I won't bear to hear any body talk ill of him but my- 
self. 

Garnet. Bless us ! now I think on't, madam, yo*» 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 237 

need not be under any uneasiness : I saw Mr. Leon- 
tine receive forty guineas from his father just before 
he set out, and he can't yet have left the inn. A short 
letter will reach him there. 

Olivia. Well remembered, Garnet ; I '11 write im- 
mediately. How's this? Bless me, my hand trembles 
so I can't write a word. Do you write, Garnet ? and, 
upon second thought, it will be better from you. 

Garnet. Truly, madam, I write and indite but poor- 
ly, I never was cute at my learning. But I '11 do what 
I can to please you. Let me see. All out of my own 
head, I suppose ? 

Olivia. Whatever you please. 

Garnet. {Writing.) 'Muster Croake: -—Twenty 
guineas, madam? 

Olivia. Ay, twenty will do. 

Garnet. 'At the bar of the Talbot till called for. — 
Expedition — Will be blown up — ii.ll of a flame — 
Quick despatch — Cupid, the little god of love.' — I 
conclude it, madam, with Cupid : I love to see a love 
letter end like poetry. 

Olivia. Well, well, what you please, anything. But 
how shall we send it? I can tfust none of the ser- 
vants of this family. 

Garnet. Odso, madam, Mr. Honeywood's butler is 
in the next room : he 's a dear, sweet man ; he'll do 
anything for me. 

Jarvis. He ! the dog, he'll certainly commit some 
blunder. He's drunk and sober ten times a-day. 

Olivia. No matter. Fly, Garnet : any body we 
can trust will do. \Exit Garnet.'] Well, Jarvis, now 



238 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

we can have nothing more to interrupt us ; you may 
take up the things, and carry them on to the inn. 
Have you no hands, Jarvis ? 

Jarvis. Soft and fair, young lady. You that are 
going to be married think things can never be done 
too fast; but we, that are old, and know what we are 
about, must elope methodically, madam. 

Olivia. Well, sure, if my indiscretions were to be 
done over again 

Jarvis. My life for it, you would do them ten times 
over 

Olivia. Why will you talk so ? If you knew how 
unhappy they make me 

Jarvis. Very unhappy, no doubt ; I was once just 
as unhappy when I was going to be married myself. 
I '11 tell you a story about that 

Olivia. A story ! when I am all impatience to be 
away. Was there ever such a dilatory creature ! 

Jarvis. Well, madam, if we must march, why we 
will march, that's all. Though, odds-bobs, we have 
still forgot one thing we should never travel without — 
a case of good razors, and a box of shaving powder. 
But no matter, I believe we shall be pretty well shaved 
by the way. [ Going. 

Enter Garnet. 

Garnet. Undone, undone, madam. Ah, Mr. Jar- 
vis, you said right enough. As sure as death, Mr. 
Honeywood's rogue of a drunken butler dropped the 
letter before he went ten yards from the door. There's 
old Croaker has just picked it up, and is this moment 
reading it to himself in the hall. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 239 

Olivia. Unfortunate ! we shall be discovered. 

Garnet. No, madam ; do n't be uneasy, he can make 
neither head nor tail of it. To be sure, he looks as if 
he was broke loose from Bedlam, about it, but he can't 
find what it means for all that. O lud, he is coming 
this way all in the horrors. 

Olivia. Tben let us leave the house this instant for 
fear he should ask farther questions. In the mean 
time, Garnet, do you write and send off just such an- 
other. \_Exeunt. 
Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Death and destruction ! Are all the hor- 
rors of air, fire, and water, to be levelled only at me ? 
Am I only to be singled out for gunpowder plots, com- 
bustibles, and conflagrations ? Here it is — An incen- 
diary letter dropped at my door. ' To Muster Croaker, 
these with speed.' Ay, ay, plain enough the direction ; 
all in the genuine incendiary spelling, and as cramp as 
the devil. 'With speed.' Oh, confound your speed! 
But let me read it once more. (Heads.) ' Muster 
Croaker, as sone as yowe see this, leve twenty gunnes 
at the bar of the Talboot tell caled for, or yowe and 
yower experetion will be al blown up.' Ah, but too 
plain ! Blood and gunpowder in every line of it, 
Blown up ! murderous dog ! All blown up ' Heavens! 
what have I and my poor family done, to be all blown 
up ? (Heads.) ' Our pockets are low, and money we 
must have.' Ay, there's the reason ; they'll blow us 
up, because they have got low pockets. (Heads.) ' It 
is but a short time you have to consider ; for if this 
takes wind, the house will quickly be all of a flame.' 



240 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Inhuman monsters ! blow us up, and then burn us ! 
The earthquake at Lisbon was but a bonfire to it. 
{Reads.) ' Make quick despatch, and so no more at 
present. But may Cupid, the little god of love, go 
with you wherever you go.' The little god of love! 
Cupid, the little god of love, go with me ! — Go you to 
the devil, you and your little Cupid together. I'm so 
frightened, I scarce know whether I sit, stand, or go. 
Perhaps this moment I'm treading on lighted matches, 
blazing brimstone, and barrels of gunpowder. They 
are prej3aring to blow me up into the clouds. Murder ! 
"We shall be all burnt in our beds ; we shall be all 
burnt in our beds ! 

Enter Miss Richland. 

Miss Richland. Lord, sir, what's the matter ? 

Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all 
blown up in our beds before morning. 

Miss Richland. I hope not, sir. 

Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, 
when I have a certificate of it here in my hand ? Will 
nothing alarm my family? Sleejjing and eating — 
sleeping and eating is the only work from morning till 
night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep 
though rocked by an earthquake, and fry beef-steaks 
at a volcano. 

Miss Richland. But, sir, you have alarmed them so 
often already ; we have nothing but earthquakes, fam- 
ines, plagues, and mad dogs from year's end to year's 
end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month 
ago, you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 241 

to poison us in our bread ; and so kept the whole fam- 
ily a week upon potatoes. 

Croaker. And potatees were too good for them. 
But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I 
should be facing the enemy without ! Here, John, 
Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, 
to see if there be any combustibles below ; and above, 
in the apartments that no matches be thrown in at the 
windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the en- 
gine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house 
in case of necessity. [Exit. 

Miss Richland. (Alone.) "What can he mean by 
all this ? Yet why should I inquire, when he alarms 
us in this manner almost every day. But Honey wood 
has desired an interview with me in private. What 
can he mean? or rather, what means this palpitation 
at his approach ? It is the first time he ever showed 
anything in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure, 
he cannot mean to — but he's here. 

Enter Honeywood. 

Honeywood. I presumed to solicit this interview, 
madam, before I left town, to be permitted 

Miss Richland. Indeed ! leaving town, sir ? 

Honeywood. Yes, madam, perhaps the kingdom. I 
have presumed, I say, to desire the favor of this inter- 
view in order to disclose something which our long 
friendship prompts. And yet my fears 

Miss Richland. His fears ! what are his fears to 
mine ! (Aside.) "We have, indeed, been long ac- 
quainted, sir ; very long. If I remember, our first 

21 



242 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

meeting was at the French ambassador's. Do you 
'recollect how you were pleased to rally me upon my 
complexion there ? 

Honeywood. Perfectly, madam ; I presumed to re- 
prove you for painting ; but your warmer blushes soon 
convinced the company that the coloring was all from 
nature. 

Miss Richland. And yet you only meant it in your 
good-natured way, to make me pay a compliment to 
myself. In the same manner, you danced that night 
with the most awkward woman in company, because 
you saw nobody else would take her out. 

Honeywood. Yes ; and was rewarded the next night 
by dancing with the finest woman in company, whom 
everybody wished to take out. 

Miss Richland. Well, sir, if you thought so then, 
I fear your judgment has since corrected the errors of 
a first impression. We generally show to most advan- 
tage at first. Our sex are like poor tradesmen, that 
put all their best goods to be seen at the windows. 

Honeywood. The first impression, madam, did in- 
deed deceive me. I expected to find a woman with all 
the faults of conscious, flattered beauty ; I expected to 
find her vain and insolent. But every day has since 
taught me, that it is possible to possess sense without 
pride, and beauty without affectation. 

Miss Richland. This, sir, is a style very unusual 
with Mr. Honeywood ; and I should be glad to know 
why he thus attempts to increase that vanity, which his 
own lessons have taught me to despise. 

Hmeyivood. I ask pardon, madam. Yet, from our 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 243 

long friendship, I presumed I might have some right 
to offer, without offence, what you may refuse without 
offending. 

Miss Richland. Sir ! I beg you 'd reflect : though I 
fear I shall scarce have any power to refuse a request 
of yours, yet you may be precipitate : consider, sir. 

Honeywood. I own my rashness ; but as I plead the 
cause of friendship, of one who loves — don't be alarm- 
ed, madam — who loves you with the most ardent pas- 
sion, whose whole happiness is placed in you 

Miss Richland. I fear, sir, I shall never find whom 
you mean, by this description of him. 

Honeywood. Ah, madam, it but too plainly points him 
out ! though he should be too humble himself to urge 
his pretensions, or you too modest to understand them. 

Miss Richland. "Well, it would be affectation any 
longer to pretend ignorance ; and I will own, sir, I 
have long been prejudiced in his favor. It was but 
natural to wish to make his heart mine, as he seemed 
himself ignorant of its value. 

Honeywood. I see she always loved him. (Aside.) 
I find, madam, you're already sensible of his worth, 
his passion. How happy is my friend to be the favor- 
ite of one with such sense to distinguish merit, and 
such beauty to reward it ! 

Miss Richland. Your friend, sir ! what friend ? 

Honeytvood. My best friend — my friend Mr. Lofty, 
madam. 

Miss Richland. He, sir? 

Honeywood. Yes, he, madam. He is, indeed, what 
your warmest wishes might have formed him : and to 



244 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

his other qualities he adds that of the most passionate 
regard for you. 

Miss Richland. Amazement ! — No more of this,. 
I beg you, sir. 

Honeyioood. I see your confusion, madam, and 
know how to interpret it. And, since I so plainly read 
the language of your heart, shall I make my friend 
happy, by communicating your sentiments ? 

Miss Richland.. By no means. 

Honeywood. Excuse me, I must ; I know you de- 
sire it. 

Miss Richland. Mr. Honeywood, let me tell you, 
that you wrong my sentiments and yourself. "When I 
first applied to your friendship, I expected advice and 
assistance ; but now, sir, I see that it is vain to expect 
happiness from him who has been so bad an economist 
of his own ; and that I must disclaim his friendship 
who ceases to be a friend to himself. \_Exit. 

Honeywood. How is this ? she has confessed she 
loved him, and yet she seemed to part in displeasure. 
Can I have done anything to reproach myself with ? 
No ! I believe net : yet, after all, these things should 
lot be done by a third person : I should have spared 
her confusion. My friendship carried me a little too far. 

Enter Croaker, ivith the letter in his hand, and 
Mrs. Croaker. 

Mrs. Croaker. Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my dear, it's 
your supreme wish that I should be quite wretched 
upon this occasion ? Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. {Mimicking.} Ha ! ha ! ha ! And so, my 



XHE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 245 

dear, it's your supreme pleasure to give me no better 
consolation ? 

Mrs. Croaker. Positively, my clear ; what is this 
incendiary stuff and trumpery to me ? Our house may 
travel through the air, like the house of Loretto, for 
aught I care, if I 'm to be miserable in it. 

Croaker. Would to heaven it were converted into 
a house of correction for your benefit. Have we not 
everything to alarm us ? Perhaps this very moment 
the tragedy is beginning. 

Mrs. Croaker. Then let us reserve our distress till 
the rising of the curtain, or give them the money they 
want, and have done with them. 

Croaker. Give them my money ! — and pray, what 
right have they to my money ? 

Mrs. Croaker. And pray, what right, then, have 
you to my good-humor? 

Croaker. And so your good-humor advises me to 
part with my money? Why, then, to tell your good- 
humor a piece of my mind, I 'd sooner part with my 
wife. Here is Mr. Honeywood ; see what he '11 say to 
it. My dear Honeywood, look at this incendiary letter 
dropped at my door. It will freeze you with terror ; 
and yet lovey can read it — can read it and laugh. 

Mrs. Croaker. Yes, and so will Mr. Honeywood. 

Croaker. If he does, I'll suffer to be hanged the 
next minute in the rogue's place, that 's all. 

Mrs. Croaker. Speak, Mr. Honeywood ; is there 
anything more foolish than my husband's fright upon 
this occasion ? 

Honeywood. It would not become me to decide,, 
21* 



246 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

madam ; but, doubtless, the greatness of his terrors 
now will but invite them to renew their villany anoth- 
er time. 

Mrs. Croaker. I told you, he'd be of my opinion. 

Croaker. How, sir ! Do you maintain that I should 
lie down under such an injury, and show, neither by 
my fears nor complaints, that I have something of the 
spirit of a man in me ? 

Honeywood. Pardon me, sir. You ought to make 
the loudest complaints, if you desire redress. The 
surest way to have redress is to be earnest in the pur- 
suit of it. 

Croaker. Ay, whose opinion is he of now ? 

Mrs. Croaker. But don't you think that laughing 
off our fears is the best way ? 

Honeyivood. What is the best, madam, few can say ; 
but I '11 maintain it to be a very wise way. 

Croaker. But we 're talking of the best. Surely 
the best way is to face the enemy in the field, and not 
wait till he plunders us in our very bed-chamber. 

Honeywood. Why, sir, as to the best, that — that's 
a very wise way too. 

Mrs. Croaker. But can anything be more absurd, 
than to double our distress by our apprehensions, and 
put it in the power of every low fellow, that can scrawl 
ten words of wretched spelling, to torment us? 

Honeywood. Without doubt, nothing more absurd. 

Croaker. How ! would it not be more absurd to de- 
spise the rattle till we are bit by the snake ? 

Honeywood. Without doubt, perfectly absurd. 

Croaker. Then your are of my opinion. 

Honeywood. Entirely. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 247 

Mrs. Croaker. And you reject mine ? 
Honeywood. Heavens forbid, madam ! No, sure no 
reasoning can be more just than yours. We ought 
certainly to despise malice, if we cannot oppose it, and 
not make the incendiary's pen as fatal to our repose as 
the highwayman's pistol. 

Mrs. Croaker. Oh, then you think I'm quite right ? 
Honeywood. Perfectly right. 

Croaker. A plague of plagues, we can't be both 
right. I ought to be sorry, or I ought to be glad. My 
hat must be on my head, or my hat must be off. 

Mrs. Croaker. Certainly, in two opposite opinions, 
if one be perfectly reasonable, the other can 't be per- 
fectly right. 

Honeyioood. And why may not both be right, mad- 
am ? Mr. Croaker in earnestly seeking redress, and 
you in waiting the event in good-humor? Pray, let 
me see the letter again. I have it. This letter re- 
quires twenty guineas to be left at the bar of the Tal- 
bot Inn. If it be indeed an incendiary letter, what if 
you and I, sir, go there ; and when the writer comes 
to be paid his expected booty, seize him ? 

Croaker. My dear friend, it 's the very thing — the 
very thing. While I walk by the door, you shall plant 
yourself in ambush near the bar ; burst out upon the 
miscreant like a masked battery ; extort a confession 
at once, and so hang him up by surprise. 

Honeywood. Yes, but I would not choose to exer- 
cise too much severity. It is my maxim, sir, that 
crimes generally punish themselves. 

Croaker. Well, but we may upbraid him a little, I 
suppose. {Ironically.) 



248 THE GOOD-XATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. Ay, but not punish him too rigidly. 

Croaker. Well, well, leave that to my own benevo- 
lence. 

Honeywood. Well, I do ; but remember that uni- 
versal benevolence is the law of nature. 

[Exeunt Honeywood and Mrs. Croaker. 

Croaker. Yes ; and my universal benevolence will 
hang the dog, if he had as many necks as a hydra. 



ACT FIFTH. 

Scene. — AN inn. 

Enter Olivia and Jarvis. 

Olivia. Well, we have got safe to the inn, however. 
Now, if the post-chaise were ready 

Jarvis. The horses are just finishing their oats ; 
and, as they are not going to be married, they choose 
to take their own time. 

Olivia. You are for ever giving wrong motives to 
my impatience. 

Jarvis. Be as impatient as you will, the horses must 
take their own time ; besides, you do n"t consider we have 
got no answer from our fellow-traveller yet. If we hear 
nothing from Mr. Leontine, we have only one way left us. 

Olivia. What way ? 

Jarvis. The way home again. 

Olivia. Not so. I have made a resolution to go, 
and nothing shall induce me to break it. 

Jarvis. Ay ; resolutions are well kept, when they 
jump with inclination. However, I'll go hasten things 
without. And I'll call, too, at the bar to see if anv 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 249 

thing should be left for us there. Do n't be in such a 

plaguy hurry, madam, and we shall go the faster, I 

promise you. [Exit. 

Enter Landlady. 

Landlady. What! Solomon, why don't you move. 
Pipes and tobacco for the Lamb there. Will nobody 
answer ? To the Dolphin ; quick. The Angel has 
been outrageous this half hour. Did your ladyship 
call, madam? 

Olivia. No, madam. 

Landlady. I find as you are for Scotland, madam, 
— but that 's no business of mine ; married, or not 
married, I ask no questions. To be sure, we had a 
sweet little couple set off from this two days ago 
for the same place. The gentleman, for a tailor, was, 
to be sure, as fine a spoken tailor as ever blew froth 
from a full pot. And the young lady so bashful, it was 
near half an hour before we could get her to finish a 
pint of rasberry between us. 

Olivia. But this gentleman and I are not going to 
be married, I assure you. 

Landlady. May be not. That 's no business of mine 
for certain Scotch marriages seldom turn out well. 
There was, of my own knowledge, Miss Macfag, that 
married her father's footman. Alack-a-day, she and 
her husband soon jjarted, and now keep separate cel- 
lars in Hedge-lane. 

Olivia. {Aside.) A very pretty picture of what 
lies before me ! 

Enter Leoniine. 

Leontine. My dear Olivia, my anxiety, till you were 



250 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

out of danger, was too great to be resisted. I could 
not help coming to see you set out, though it exposes 
us to a discovery. 

Olivia. May everything you do prove as fortunate. 
Indeed, Leontine, we have been most cruelly disap- 
pointed. Mr. Honeywood's bill upon the city has, it 
seems, been protested, and we have been utterly at a 
loss how to proceed. 

Leontine. How ! an offer of his own too ! Sure he 
could not mean to deceive us ? 

Olivia. Depend upon his sincerity ; he only mis- 
took the desire for the power of serving us. But let 
us think no more of it. I believe the post-chaise is 
ready by this. 

Landlady. Not quite yet ; and begging your lady- 
ship's pardon, I do n't think your ladyship quite ready 
for the post-chaise. The north road is a cold place, 
madam. I have a drop in the house of as pretty rasp- 
berry as ever was tipt over tongue. Just a thim- 
bleful to keep the wind off your stomach. To be sure 
the last couple we had here, they said it was a perfect 
nosegay. Ecod, I sent them both away as good-na- 
tured — Up went the blinds, round went the wheels, 
and Drive away, post boy ! was the word. 

Enter Croaker. 

Croaker. Well, while my friend Honey wood is up- 
on the post of danger at the bar, it must be my busi- 
ness to have an eye about me here. I think I know 
m incendiary's look , for wherever the devil makes a 
purchase, he never fails to set his mark. Ha ! who 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 251 

have we here ? My son and daughter ! What can 
they be doing here ? 

Landlady. I tell you, madam, it will do you good ; 
I think I know by this time what 's good for the north 
road. It's a raw night, madam. Sir — 

Leontine. Not a drop more, good madam. I should 
now take it as a greater favor, if you hasten the horses, 
for I am afraid to be seen myself. 

Landlady. That shall be done. Wha, Solomon ! 
are you all dead there ? Wha, Solomon, I say ! 

[Exit, bawling'. 

Olivia. Well, I dread lest an exj^edition begun in 
fear, should end in repentance. Every moment we stay 
increases our danger, and adds to my apprehensions. 

Leontine. There's no danger, trust me, my dear ; 
there can be none. If Honeywood has acted with hon- 
or, and kept my father, as he promised, in employment 
till we are out of danger, nothing can interrupt our 
journey. 

Olivia. I have no doubt of Mr. Honeywood's sin- 
cerity, and even his desire to serve us. My fears are 
from your father's suspicions. A mind so disposed to 
be alarmed without a cause, will be but too ready when 
there's a reason. 

Leontine. Why, let him, when we are out of his 
power. But believe me, Olivia, you have no great 
reason to dread his resentment. His repining temper, 
as it does no manner of injury to himself, so will it 
never do harm to others. He only frets to keep him- 
self employed, and scolds for his private amusement. 



252 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Olivia. I do n't know that ; but I'm sure, on some 
occasions, it makes him look most shockingly. 

Croaker discovering himself. 

Croaker. How does he look now ? — How does he 
look now ? 

Olivia. Ah ! 

Leontine. Undone ! 

Croaker. How do I look now ? Sir, I am your very 
humble servant. Madam, I am yours ! "What ! yon 
are going off, are you ? Then, first, if you please take 
a word or two from me with you before you go. Tell 
me first where you are going ; and when you have told 
me that, perhaps I shall know as little as I did before. 

Leontine. If that be so, our answer might but in- 
crease your displeasure, without adding to your infor- 
mation. 

Croaker. I want no information from you, puppy ; 
and you too, good madam, what answer have you got ? 
Eh ! {A cry without, Stop him.) I think I heard a 
noise. My friend, Honeywood without — has he seized 
the incendiary ? Ah, no, for now I hear no more on't. 

Leontine. Honeywood without ! Then, sir, it was 
Mr. Honeywood that directed you hither ? 

Croaker. No, sir, it was not Mr. Honeywood con- 
ducted me hither. 

Leontine. Is it possible ? 

Croaker. Possible ! why he 's in the house now, 
sir ; more anxious about me than my own son, sir. 

Leontine. Then, sir, he 's a villain. 

Croaker. How, sirrah ! a villain, because he takes 
most care of your father ? I '11 not bear it. I tell you 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 253 

I '11 not bear it. Honey wood is a friend to the family, 
and I'll have him treated as such. 

Leontine. I shall study to repay his friendship as it 
deserves. 

Croaker. Ah, rogue, if you knew how earnestly he 
entered into my griefs, and pointed out the means to 
detect them, you would love him as I do. (A cry with- 
out, Stop him.) Fire and fury ! they have seized the 
incendiary : they have the villian, the incendiary in 
view. Stop him ! stop an incendiary ! a murderer ? 
stop him ! \_Exit. 

Olivia. Oh, my terrors ! what can this tumult mean ? 

Leontine. Some new mark, I suppose, of Mr. Honey- 
wood's sincerity. But we shall have satisfaction : he 
shall give me instant satisfaction. 

Olivia. It must not be, my Leontine, if you value 
my esteem or my happiness. Whatever be our fate, 
let us not add guilt to our misfortunes : consider that 
our innocence will shortly be all that we have left us. 
You must forgive him. 

Leontine. Forgive him ! Has he not in every in- 
stance betrayed us ? Forced me to borrow money from 
him, which appears a mere trick to delay us ; promised 
to keep my father engaged till we were out of danger, 
and here brought him to the very scene of our escape ? 

Olivia. Do n't be precipitate. We may yet be 
mistaken. 

Enter Post-boy, dragging in Jarvis ; Honeywood enter- 
ing soon after. 

Post-boy. Ay, master, we have him fast enough. 

22 



254 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Here is the incendiary clog. I'm entitled to the re- 
ward ; I'll take my oath I saw him ask for the money 
at the bar, and then run for it. 

Honeywood. Come, bring him along. Let us see 
him. Let him learn to blush for his crimes. (Dis- 
covering his mistake.) Death ! what's here ? Jarvis, 
Leontine, Olivia ! What can all this mean ? 

Jarvis. Why, I'll tell you what it means : that I 
was an old fool, and that you are my master — that's all. 

Honeywood. Confusion ! 

Leontine. Yes, sir, I find you have kept your word 
with me. After such baseness, I wonder how you can 
venture to see the man you have injured ! 

Honeywood. My dear Leontine, by my life, my 
honor 

Leontine. Peace, peace, for shame ; and do not con- 
tinue to aggravate baseness by hypocrisy. I know you, 
sir, I know you. 

Honeywood. Why, won't you hear me ? By all 
that 's just, I knew not 

Leontine. Hear you, sir ! to what purpose ? I now 
see through all your low arts ; your ever complying 
with every opinion ; your never refusing any request ; 
your friendship's as common as a prostitute's favors, 
and as fallacious ; all these, sir, have long been con- 
temptible to the world, and are now perfectly so to me. 

Honeywood. Ha ! contemptible to the world ' that 
reaches me. \_Aside. 

Leontine. All the seeming sincerity of your profes- 
sions, I now find were only allurements to betray ; and 
all your seeming regret for their consequence, only cal- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 255 

culated to cover the cowardice of your heart. Draw 
villain ! 

Enter Croaker, out of breath. 

Croaker. Where is the villain ? Where is the in- 
cendiary ? {Seizing the Postboy.) Hold him fast, the 
dog ; he has the gallows in his face. Come, you dog, 
confess, confess all, and hang yourself. 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, what do you throttle me 
for? 

Croaker. {Beating him.) Dog, do you resist ? do 
you resist ? 

Postboy. Zounds ! master, I 'm not he ; there 's the 
man that we thought was the rogue, and turns out to 
be one of the company. 

Croaker. How ! 

Honeywood. Mr. Croaker, we have all been under 
a strange mistake here ; I find there is nobody guilty ; 
it was all an error — entirely an error of our own. 

Croaker. And I say, sir, that you 're in error ; for 
there's guilt and double guilt, a plot, a damned Jesuit- 
ical, pestilential, plot, and I must have proof of it. 

Honeywood. Do but hear me. 

Croaker. What ! you intend to bring 'em off, I sup- 
pose ? I '11 hear nothing. 

Honeywood. Madam, you seem at least calm enough 
to hear reason. 

Olivia. Excuse me. 

Honeywood. Good Jarvis, let me then explain it to 
you. 

Jarvis. What signifies explanations when the thing 
is done ? 



256 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Honeywood. Will nobody hear me ? Was there 
ever such a set, so blinded by passion and prejudice ? 
{To the Postboy.) My good friend, I believe you '11 be 
surprised when I assure you 

Postboy. Sure me nothing — I'm sure of nothing 
but a good beating. 

Croaker. Come then you, madam, if you ever hope 
for any favor or forgiveness, tell me sincerely all you 
know of this affair. 

Olivia. Unhappily, sir, I 'm but too much the cause 
of your suspicions : You see before you, sir, one that, 
with false pretences, has stept into your family to be- 
tray it ; not your daughter 

Croaker. Not my daughter ! 

Olivia. Not your daughter — but a mean deceiver 
— who — support me, I cannot 

Honeywood. Help, she 's going : give her air. 

Croaker. Ay, ay, take the young woman to the 
air ; I would not hurt a hair of her head, whose ever 
daughter she may be — not so had as that neither. 

[Exit all but Croaker. 

Yes, yes, all's out ; I now see the whole affair : my 
son is either married, or going to be so, to this lady, 
whom he imposed upon me as his sister. Ay, certain- 
ly so ; and yet I do n't find it afflicts me so much as 
one might think. There's the advantage of fretting 
away our misfortunes beforehand, — we never feel 
them when they come. 

Enter Miss Richland and Sir William. 

Sir William. But how do you know, madam, that 
my nephew intends setting off from this place ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 257 

Miss Richland. My maid assured me he was come 
to this inn, and my own knowledge of his intending to 
leave the kingdom, suggested the rest. But what do 
I see ? my guardian here before us ! Who, my dear 
sir, could have expected meeting you here ? To what 
accident do we owe this pleasure ? 
Croaker. To a. fool, I believe. 

Miss Richland. But to what purpose did you come ? 
Croaker. To play the fool. 
Miss Richland. But with whom ? 
Croaker. With greater fools than myself. 
Miss Richland. Explain. 

Croaker. Why, Mr. Honeywood brought me here 
to do nothing now I am here ; and my son is going to 
be married to I do n't know who, that is here : so now 
you are as wise as I am. 

Miss Richland. Married! to whom, sir? 
Croaker. To Olivia, my daughter, as I took her to 
be ; but who the devil she is, or whose daughter she is, 
I know no more than the man in the moon. 

Sir William. Then, sir, I can inform you ; and, 
though a stranger, yet you shall find me a friend to 
your family. It will be enough, at present, to assure 
you, that both in point of birth and fortune, the young 
lady is at least your son's equal. Being left by her 

father, Sir James Woodville 

Croaker. Sir James Woodville ! What ! of the 
West? 

Sir William. Being left by him, I say, to the care 
of a mercenary wretch, whose only aim was to secure 
her fortune to himself, she was sent to France, under 

22* 



258 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

pretence of education ; and there every art was tried 
to fix her for life in a convent, contrary to her inclina- 
tions. Of this I was informed upon my arrival at 
Paris ; and, as I had been once her father's friend, I 
did all in my power to frustrate her guardian's base in- 
tentions. I had even meditated to rescue her from his 
authority, when your son stept in with more pleasing 
violence, gave her liberty, and you a daughter. 

Croaker. But I intend to have a daughter of my 
own choosing, sir. A young lady, sir, whose fortune, 
by my interest with those that have interest, will be 
double what my son has a right to expect. Do you 
know Mr. Lofty, sir? 

Sir William. Yes, sir : and know that you are de- 
ceived in him. But step this way, and I'll convince 
you. [ Croaker and Sir William seem to confer. 

Miter Honeywood. 

Honey wood. Obstinate man, still to persist in his 
outrage ! Insulted by him, despised by all, I now be- 
gin to grow contemptible even to myself. How have 
I sunk by too great an assiduity to please ! How have 
I overtaxed all my abilities, lest the approbation of a 
single fool should escape me ! But all is now over : 
I have survived my reputation, my fortune, my friend- 
ships, and nothing remains henceforward for me but 
solitude and repentance. 

Miss Richland. Is it true, Mr. Honeywood, that 
you are setting off, without taking leave of your 
friends ? The report is, that you are quitting England ? 
Can it be ? 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 259 

Honeyioood. Yes, madam ; and though I am so un- 
happy as to have fallen under your displeasure, yet, 
thank Heaven ! I leave you to happiness — to one who 
loves vou, and deserves your love — to one who has 
power to procure you affluence, and generosity to im- 
prove your enjoyment of it. 

Miss Richland. And are you sure, sir, that the gen- 
tleman you mean is what you describe him ? 

Honeyioood. I have the best assurances of it — his 
serving me. He does indeed deserve the highest hap- 
piness, and that is in your power to confer. As for 
me, weak and wavering as I have been, obliged by all, 
and incapable of serving any, what happiness can I find 
but in solitude ? what hope, but in being f orgotton ? 

Miss Richland. A thousand : to live among friends 
that esteem you, whose happiness it will be to be per- 
mitted to oblige you. 

Honeyioood. No, madam, my resolution is fixed. 
Inferiority among strangers is easy ; but among those 
that once were equals, insupportable. Nay, to show 
you how far my resolution can go, I can now speak 
with calmness of my former follies, .my vanity, my dis- 
sipation, my weakness. I will even confess, that, 
among the number of my other presumptions, I had 
the insolence to think of loving you. Yes, madam, 
while I was pleading the passion of another, my heart 
was tortured with its own. But it is over ; it was un- 
worthy our friendship, and let it be forgotten. 

Miss Richland. You amaze me ! 

Honeyioood. But you'll forgive it, I know you will ; 
since the confession should not have come from me 



260 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

even now, but to convince you of the sincerity of my 

intention of — never mentioning it more. \ Going.. 

Miss Richland. Stay, sir, one moment — Ha ! he 

here 

Enter Lofty. 

Lofty. Is the coast clear ? None but friends ? I have 
followed you here with a trifling piece of intelligence ; 
but it goes no farther ; things are not yet ripe for a 
discovery. I have spirits working at a certain board ; 
your affair at the Treasury will be done in less than 
— a thousand years. Mum ! 

Miss Richland. Sooner, sir, I should hope. 

Lofty. Why, yes, I believe it may, if it falls into 
proper hands, that know where to push and where to 
parry ; that know how the land lies — eh, Honey wood ? 

Miss Richland. It has fallen into yours. 

Lofty. Well, to keep you no longer in suspense, 
your thing is done. It is done, I say, that's all. I have 
just had assurances from Lord Neverout, that the claim 
has been examined, and found admissible. Quietus is 
the word, madam.- 

Honeyivood. But how ? his lordship has been at 
Newmarket these ten days. 

Lofty. Indeed ! Then Sir Gilbert Goose must have 
been most damnably mistaken. I had it of him. 

Miss Richland. He ! why, Sir Gilbert and his fam- 
ily have been in the country this month. 

Lofty. This month ! it must certainly be so — Sir 
Gilbert's letter did come to me from Newmarket, so 
that he must have met his lordship there ; and so it 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 261 

came about. I have Iiis letter about me ; I'll read it 
to you. {Taking out a large bundle.) That's from 
Paoli of Corsica, that from the Marquis of Squilachi. 
Have you a mind to see a letter from Count Pouia- 
towski, now King of Poland? Honest Pon — (Search- 
ing.) Oh, sir, what, are you here too ? I'll tell you 
what, honest friend, if you have not absolutely delivered 
my letter to Sir William Honeywoocl, you may return 
it. The thing will do without him. 

Sir William. Sir, I have delivered it ; and must in- 
form you, it was received with the most mortifying con- 
tempt. 

Croaker. Contempt ! Mr. Lofty, what can that 
mean? 

Lofty. Let him go on, let him go on, I say, You'll 
find it come to something presently. 

Sir William. Yes, sir ; I believe you'll be amazed, 
if, after waiting some time in the antechamber — after 
being surveyed with insolent curiosity by the passing 
servants, I was at last assured, that Sir William Hon- 
ey wood knew no such person, and I must certainly 
have been imposed upon. 

Lofty. Good ! let me die ; very good. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. Now, for my life, I can't find out half the 
goodness of it. 

Lofty. You can't ? Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. No, for the soul of me : I think it was as 
confounded a bad answer as ever was sent from one 
private gentleman to another. 

Lofty. And so you can 't find out the force of the 
message ? Why, I was in the house at that very time. 



262 THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 

Ha ! ha ! it was I that sent that very answer to my own 
letter. Ha ! ha ! 

Croaker. Indeed ! How ? why ? 

Lofty. In one word, things between Sir William 
and me must be behind the curtain. A party has many 
eyes. He sides with Lord Buzzard, I side with Sir 
Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mystery. 

Croaker. And so it does, indeed ; and all my sus- 
picions are over. 

Lofty. Your suspicions ! what, then you have been 
suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you ? Mr. 
Croaker, you and I were friends — we are friends no 
longer. Never talk to me. It's over ; I say, it's over. 

Croaker. As I hope for your favor, I did not mean 
to offend. It escaped me. Don't be discomposed. 

Lofty. Zounds ! sir, but I am discomposed, and will 
be discomposed. To be treated thus ! Who am I ? 
Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and 
outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and 
praised in the St. James's ; have I been chaired at 
Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors' Hall ; 
have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the 
print-shops, — and talk to me of suspects? 

Croaker. My clear sir, be pacified. What can you 
have but asking pardon ? 

Lofty. Sir, I will not be paciiied — Suspects ! Who 
am I ? To be used thus ! Have I paid court to men 
in favor to serve my friends, the lords of the Treasury, 
Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and 
talk to me of suspects ! Who am I, I say, who am I ? 

Sir William. Since you are so pressing for an an- 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 263 

swer, I'll tell you who you are : — A gentleman as well 
acquainted with politics as with men in power ; as well 
acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty ; 
with lords of the Treasury as with truth ; and, with 
all, as you are with Sir William Honeywood. I am 
Sir William Honeywood. (Discovering his ensigns of 
the Bath.) 

Croaker. Sir William Honeywood ! 

Honeywood. Astonishment ! my uncle ! (Aside.) 

Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all 
this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to 
fling me out of the window. 

Croaker. What, Mr. Importance, and are these 
your works ? Suspect you ! You, who have been 
dreaded by the ins and outs ; you who have had your 
hand to addresses, and head stuck up in print-shops ? 
If you were served right, you should have your head 
stuck up in the pillory. 

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will ; for by the 
Lord, it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at 
present. 

Sir William. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now 
see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, 
and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his 
influence. 

Croaker. Ay, sir. too well I see it ; and I can't but 
say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So 
I'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on 
a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his 
choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty 
in helping him to a better. 



264 THE GOOD-NATUKED MAN. 

Sir William. I approve your resolution ; and here 
they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon 
and consent. 

Enter Mrs. Croaker. Jarvis, Leontine, and Olivia. 

Mrs. Croaker. Where 's my husband ? Come, come, 
lovey, you must forgive them. Jarvis here has been 
to tell me the whole affair ; and I say, you must for- 
give them. Our own was a stolen match, you know, 
my dear ; and we never had any reason to repent of it. 

Croaker. I wish we could both say so. However, thic 
gentleman, Sir William Honeywood, has been before- 
hand with you in obtaining their pardon. So, if the 
two poor fools have a mind to marry, I think we can 
tack them together without crossing the Tweed for it. 

[Joining their hands. 

Leontine. How blest and unexpected ! What, what 
can we say to such goodness ? But our future obedi- 
ence shall be the best reply. And as for this gentle- 
man, to whom we owe 

Sir William. Excuse me, sir, if I interrupt your 
thanks, as I have here an interest that calls me. 
(Turning to Honeyivood.) Yes, sir, you are surprised 
to see me ; and I own that a desire of correcting your 
follies led me hither. I saw with indignation the 
errors of a mind that only sought applause from others ; 
that easiness of disposition which, though inclined to 
the right, had not the courage to condemn the wrong. 
I saw with regret those splendid errors, that still took 
name from some neighboring duty ; your charity, that 
was but injustice ; your benevolence, that was but 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAT*. 2^5 

weakness ; and your friendship but credulity. I saw 
with regret, great talents and extensive learning only 
employed to add sprightliness to error and increase 
your perplexities. I saw your mind with a thousand 
natural charms ; but the greatness of its beauty served 
only to heighten my pity for its prostitution. 

Honeywood. Cease to upbraid me, sir ; I have for 
some time but too strongly felt the justice of your re- 
proaches. But there is one way still left me. Yes, 
sir, I have determined this very hour to quit forever a 
place where I have made myself the voluntary slave of 
all, and to seek among strangers that fortitude which 
may give strength to the mind, and marshal all its dis- 
sipated virtues. Yet, ere I depart, permit me to solicit 
favor for this gentleman who, notwithstanding what 
has happened, has laid me under the most signal obli- 
gations. Mr. Lofty 

Lofty. Mr. Honeywood, I'm resolved upon a refor- 
mation as well as you. I now begin to find that the 
man who first invented the art of speaking truth, was 
a much cunninger fellow than I thought him. And to 
prove that I design to speak truth for the future, I 
must now assure you, that you owe your late enlarge- 
ment to another ; as, upon my soul, I had no hand in 
the matter. So now, if any of the company has a mind 
for preferment, he may take my place ; I'm deter- 
mined to resign. \_Exii. 

Honeywood. How have I been deceived ! 

Sir William. No, sir, you have been obliged to a 
kinder, fairer friend, for that favor, — to Miss Rich- 
land. Would she complete our joy, and make the man 

23 



266 THE GOOD-NATURED ilAN. 

she has honored by her friendship happy in her love, 
I should then forget all, and be as blest as the welfare 
of my dearest kinsman can make me. 

Miss Richland. After what is past, it would be but 
affectation to |)retend to indifference. Yes, I will own 
an attachment, which I find was more than friendship. 
And if my entreaties cannot alter his resolution to quit 
the country, I will even try if my hand has not power 
to detain him. [ Giving her hand. 

Honeyivood. Heavens ! how can I have deserved all 
this? How express my happiness — my gratitude? 
A moment like this overpays an age of apprehension. 

Croaker. Well, now I see content in every face ; 
but Heaven send we be all better this day three months ! 

Sir William. Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect 
yourself. He who seeks only for apj)lause from with- 
out, has all his happiness in another's keeping. 

Honeywood. Yes, sir, I now too plainly perceive 
my errors ; my vanity, in attempting to j)lease all by 
fearing to offend any ; my meanness, in approving 
folly lest fools should disapprove. Henceforth, there- 
fore, it shall be my study to reserve my pity for real 
distress ; my friendship for real merit ; and my love 
for her who first taught me what it is to be happy. 

\_Exeimt omnes. 



THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 267 



EPILOGUE.* 



SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLET. 



As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure 

To swear the pill or drop has wrought a cure ; 

Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend 

For epilogues and prologues on some friend, 

Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 

And makes full many a bitter pill go down. 

Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, 

And teased each rhyming friend to help him out % 

An epilogue ! things can't go on without it ! 

It could not fail, would you but set about it : 

' Young man,' cries one (a bard laid up in clover), 

'Alas ' young man, my writing days are over ! 

Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I ; 

Your brother-doctor there, perhaps, may try.' 

' What I, dear sir ? ' the Doctor interposes, 

' What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses ! 

No, no, I've other contests to maintain ; 

To-night I head our troops at Warwick-Lane. 

Go, ask your manager.' — 'Who, me?. Your pardon; 

Those things are not our forte at Co vent Garden.' 

* The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at 
Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What 
is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the 
actress who spoke it. 



268 THE GOOD-NATURED MAN. 

Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, 
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. 
As some unhappy wight, at some new play, 
At the pit-door stands elbowing a way, 
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug ; 
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, 
Sinks as he sinks, and as he rises rise : 
He nods, they nod ; he cringes, they grimace ; 
But not a soul will badge to give him place. 
Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform 
' To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,' 
Blame where you must, be candid where you can, 
And be each critic the Good-Natured M<xn~ 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 

OR, 

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 

A COMEDY. 

She Stoops to Conquer was represented for the first time, March 15, 
1773. It was very successful, and became a stock play. Gold- 
smith originally entitled it, The Old House a New Inn. 



DEDICATION. 

TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. 

Dear Sir, — By inscribing this slight performance to you, 
I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It 
may do me some honor to inform the public, that I have lived 
many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the inter- 
ests of mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit 
may be found in a character, without impairing the most un- 
affected piety. 

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiali- 
ty to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not 
merely sentimental, was very dangerous ; and Mr. Colman, 
who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it 
so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and 
though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I 
have every reason to be grateful. 

I am, dear Sir, 
Your most sincere friend and admirer, 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
23* 



DRAMATIS PERSONAL 

MEN. 

Sir Charles Marlow. 

Young Marlow (his son] 

Hardcastle. 

Hastings. 

Tony Lumpkin. 

Diggory. 

WOMEN. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. 
Miss Hardcastle. 
Miss Neville. 
Maid. 

Landlord, Servants, etc. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; 

OR, 
THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. 



PROLOGUE. 

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. 

Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, and holding a 
handkerchief to his eyes. 

Excuse me, sirs, I pray, — I can 't yet speak, — 
I 'm crying now, — and have been all the week. 
' 'Tis not alone this mourning suit,' good masters; 
'I 've that within,' for which there are no plasters ! 
Pray, would you know the reason why I 'm crying ? 
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying ! 
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ; 
For, as a player, I can 't squeeze out one drop; 
I am undone, that's all, — shall lose my bread, — 
I 'd rather, — but that 's nothing, — lose my head. 
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, 
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. 
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, 
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. 
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents; 
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments. 
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, 



272 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

We now and then take down a hearty cup. 

What shall we do ? If Comedy forsake us, 

They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us. 

But why can't I be moral ? Let me try : 

My heart thus pressing — fix'd my face and eye — 

With a sententious look that nothing means 

(Faces are blocks in sentimental scenes), 

Thus I begin, 'All is not gold that glitters, 

Pleasures seem sweet, but prove a glass of bitters. 

When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand : 

Learning is better far than house or land. 

Let not your virtue trip : who trips may stumble, 

And virtue is not virtue if she tumble.' 

I give it up — morals won't do for me ; 

To make you laugh, I must play tragedy. 

One hope remains, — hearing the maid was ill, 

A Doctor comes this night to show his skill ; 

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion, 

He, in Five Draughts prepared, presents a potion, 

A kind of magic charm ; for, be assured, 

If you will swallow it, the maid is cured : 

But desperate the Doctor's and her case is, 

If you reject the dose and make wry faces. 

This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives, 

No pois'nous drugs are mixed in what he gives. 

Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree ; 

If not, within he will receive no fee. 

The college, you, must his pretensions back, 

Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 273 

ACT FIRST. 
Scene 1.— a chamber in an old-fashioned house. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle and Mr. Hardcasile. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're 
very particular. Is there a creature in the whole coun- 
try but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now 
and then, to rub off the rust a little ? There's the two 
Miss Hoggs, and our neighbor Mrs. Grigsby, go to 
take a month's polishing every winter. 

Hardcastle. Ay, and bring back vanity and affecta- 
tion to last them the whole year. I wonder why Lou- 
don cannot keep its own fools at home. In my time, 
the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now 
they travel faster than a stage coach. Its fopperies 
come down not only as inside passengers, but in the 
very basket. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Aye, your times were fine times in- 
deed : you have been telling us of them for many a 
long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, 
that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we 
never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. 
Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the 
lame dancing master ; and all our entertainment your 
old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marl- 
borough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. 

Hardcastle. And I love it. I love everything that's 
old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old 
wine ; and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand,) you'll 
own, I've been pretty fond of an old wife. 



274 SHE STOOPS TO CONQTTEK. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for- 
ever at your Dorothys, and your old wives. You may 
be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm 
not so old as you'd make me, by more than one good 
year. Add twenty to twenty and make money of that. 

Hardcastle. Let me see ; twenty added to twenty, 
makes just -fifty and seven. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle; I was 
but twenty when I was brought to-bed of Tony, that I 
had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband ; and he's not 
come to years of discretion yet. 

Hardcastle. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. 
Ay, you have taught him finely. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. No matter. Tony Lumpkin has a 
good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. 
I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fif- 
teen hundred a-year. 

Hardcastle. Learning, quotha ! a mere composition 
of tricks and mischief. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Humor, my dear, nothing but 
humor. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the 
boy a little humor. 

Hardcastle. I 'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If 
burning the footman's shoes, frightening the maids, 
and worrying the kittens, be humor, he has it. It was 
but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my 
chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald 
head in Mrs. Frizzle's face. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And I am to blame ? The poor 
boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school 
would be his death. When he comes to be a little 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 275 

stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may 
do for him ? 

Hardcastle. Latin for him ! A cat and fiddle. No, 
no ; the alehouse and the stable are the only schools 
he '11 ever go to. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. "Well, we must not snub the poor 
boy now, for I believe we shan't have him long among 
us. Anybody that looks in his face may see he 's con- 
sumptive. 

Hardcastle. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the 
symptoms. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He coughs sometimes. 

Hardcastle. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong 



Mrs. Hardcastle. I'm actually afraid of his lungs. 

Hardcastle. And truly so am I ; for he sometimes 
whoops like a speaking trumpet — ( Tony hallooing be- 
hind the scenes.) — Oh, there he goes — a very consump- 
tive figure, truly ! 

Enter Tony, crossing the stage. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Tony, where are you going, my 
charmer ? Won't you give papa and I a little of your 
company, lovey ? 

Tony. I'm in haste, mother ; I cannot stay. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You shan't venture out this raw 
evening, my dear ; you look most shockingly. 

Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons 
expects me down every moment. There's some fun 
going forward. 

Hardcastle. Ay, the alehouse, the old place; I 
thought so. 



276 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A low, paltry set of fellows. 

Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Mug- 
gins, the exciseman, Jack Slang, the horse-doctor, little 
Arninaclab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, 
that spins the pewter platter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, my dear, disappoint them 
for one night at least. 

Tony. As for disappointing them, I should not so 
much mind ; but I can't abide to disappoint myself. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. {Detaining him.) You shan't go. 

Tony. I will, I tell you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I say you shan't. 

Tony. We'll see which is the strongest, you or I. 

[Exit, hauling her out. 

Hardcastle. {Alone.) Ay, there goes a pair that 
only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in 
combination to drive sense and discretion out of doors ? 
There's my pretty darling, Kate ! the fashions of the 
times have almost infected her too. By living a year 
or two in town, she is as fond of gauze and French 
frippery as the beet of them. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Blessings on my pretty innocence! 
drest out as usual, my Kate. Goodness ! what a quan- 
tity of superfluous silk hast thou got about thee, girl ! 
I could never teach the fools of this age, that the indi- 
gent world could be clothed out of the trimmings of 
the vain. 

Miss Hardcastle. You know our agreement, sir. 
You allow me the morning to receive and pay visits, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 277 

and to dress in my own manner ; and in the evening I 
put on my housewife's dress to please you. 

Hardcastle. Well, remember I insist on the terms 
of our agreement, and, by the by, I believe I shall 
have occasion to try your obedience this very evening. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I don't comprehend 
your meaning. 

Hardcastle. Then, to be j)lain with you, Kate, I ex- 
pect the young gentleman I have choson to be your 
husband from town this very day. I have his father's 
letter, in which he informs me his son is set out, and 
that he intends to follow him shortly after. 

Miss Hardcastle. Indeed ! I wish I had known 
something of this before. Bless me, how shall I be- 
have. It's a thousand to one I shan't like him ; our 
meeting will be so formal, and so like a thing of busi- 
ness, that I shall find no room for friendship or esteem. 

Hardcastle. Depend upon it, child, I never will con- 
trol your choice ; but Mr. Marlow, whom I have pitched 
upon, is the son of my old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, 
of whom you have heard me talk so often. The young 
gentleman has been bred a scholar, and is designed 
for an employment in the service of his country. I 
am told he's a man of an excellent understanding. 

Miss Hardcastle. Is he ? 

Hardcastle. Very generous. 

Miss Hardcastle. I believe I shall like him. 

Hardcastle. Young and brave. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm sure I shall like him= 

Hardcastle. And very handsome. 
24 



278 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, say no moro, 
(hissing his hand) he's mine — I'll have him. 

Hardcastle. And, to crown all, Kate, he's one of the 
most bashful and reserved young fellows in all the 
world. 

Miss Hardcastle. Eh ! you have frozen me to death 
again. That word reserved has undone all the rest of 
his accomplishments. A reserved lover, it is said, al- 
ways makes a suspicious husband. 

Hardcastle. On the contrary, modesty seldom re- 
sides in a breast that is not enriched with nobler vir- 
tues. It was the very feature in his character that 
first struck me. 

Miss Hardcastle. He must have more striking feat- 
ures to catch me, I promise you. However, if he be 
so young, so handsome, and so everything as you men- 
tion, I believe he'll do still. I think I '11 have him. 

Hardcastle. Ay, Kate, but there is still an obstacle. 
It's more than an even wager he may not have you. 

Miss Hardcastle. My dear papa, why will you mor- 
tify one so ? Well, if he refuses, instead of breaking 
my heart at his indifference, I'll only break my glass 
for its flattery, set my cap to some newer fashion, and 
look out for some less difficult admirer. 

Hardcastle. Bravely resolved ! In the mean time, 
I '11 go prepare the servants for his reception : as we 
seldom see company, they want as much training as a 
company of recruits the first day's muster. [Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Lud, this news of papa's 
puts me all in a flutter. Young, handsome ; these he 
put last, but I put them foremost. Sensible, good-na- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 279 

tured ; I like all that. But then, reserved and sheep- 
ish ; that's much against him. Yet can't he be cured 
of his timidity by being taught to be proud of his wife ? 
Yes; and can't I — but I vow I'm disposing of the 
husband, before I have secured the lover. 

Enter Miss Neville. 

Miss Hardcastle. I'm glad you 're come, Neville, 
my dear. Tell me, Constance, how do I look this even- 
ing ? Is there anything whimsical about me ? Is it 
one of my well-looking days, child ? am I in face today ? 

Miss Neville. Perfectly, my dear. Yet now I look 
again — bless me! — sure no accident- has happened 
among the canary birds or the gold fishes ? Has your 
brother or the cat been meddling ? or has the last novel 
been too moving ? 

Miss Hardcastle. No ; nothing of all this. I have 
been threatened — I can scarce get it out — I have 
been threatened with a lover. 

Miss Neville. And his name 

Miss Hardcastle. Is Marlow. 

Miss Neville. Indeed ! 

Miss Hardcastle. The son of Sir Charles Marlow. 

Miss Neville. As I live, the most intimate friend of 
Mr. Hastings, my admirer. They are never asunder. I 
believe you must have seen him when we lived in town. 

Miss Hardcastle. Never. 

Miss Neville. He's a very singular character, I as- 
sure you. Among women of reputation and virtue, he 
is the modestest man alive ; but his acquaintance give 
him a very different character among creatures of an- 
other stamp — you understand me. 



280 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcastle. An odd character indeed. I shall 
never be able to manage him. What shall I do ! Pshaw, 
think no more of him, but trust to occurrences for suc- 
cess. But how goes on your own affair, my dear? 
has my mother been courting you for my brother Tony, 
as usual ? 

Miss Neville. I have just come from one of our 
agreeable tete-a-tetes. She has been saying a hundred 
tender things, and setting off her pretty monster as the 
very pink of perfection. 

3Iiss Hardcastle. And her partiality is such, that 
she actually thinks him so. A fortune like yours is 
no small temptation. Besides, as she has the sole man- 
agement of it, I'm not surprised to see her unwilling 
to let it go out of the family. 

Miss Neville. A fortune like mine, which chiefly 
consists in jewels, is no such mighty temptation. But, 
at any rate, if my dear Hastings be but constant, I 
make no doubt to be too hard for her at last. How- 
ever, I let her suppose that I am in love with her son ; 
and she never once dreams that my affections are fixed 
upon another. 

Miss Hardcastle. My good brother holds out stoutly. 
I could almost love him for hating you so. 

Miss Neville. It is a good-natured creature at bot> 
torn, and I'm sure would wish to see me married to any 
body but himself. But my aunt's bell rings for our 
afternoon's walk round the improvements. Allons ! 
Courage is necessary, as our affairs are critical. 

Miss Hardcastle. Would it were bed-time, and all 
were well. \_Exeunt 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 2b 1 

Scene ii.— AS alehouse eoom. 

Several shabby fellows with punch and tobacco ; Tony at 
the head of the table, a little higher than the rest, a mal- 
let in his hand. 

Omnes. Hurrea ! hurrea ! hurrea ! bravo ! 

First Felloiv. Now, gentlemen, silence for a song. 
The Squire is going to knock himself down for a song. 

Omnes. Ay, a song, a song! 

Tony. Then I'll sing you, gentlemen, a song ] 
made upon this alehouse, The Three Pigeons. 

SONG. 

Let schoolmasters puzzle their brain 

With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; 
Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, 

Gives genus a better discerning. 
Let them brag of their heathenish gods, 

Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians, 
Their quis, and their quces, and their quods, 

They're all but a parcel of pigeon*. 

Toroddle, toroddle, torolt. 

When methodist preachers come down, 

A-preachmg that drinking is sinful, 
I'll wager the rascals a crown, 

They always preach best with a skinfull. 
But when you come down with your pence, 

For a slice of their scurvy religion, 
I'll leave it to all men of sense, 

But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Then come, put the jorum about, 

And let us be merry and clever, 
Our hearts and our liquors are stout, 

Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for eves, 

24* 



282 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Let some cry up woodcock or hare, 
Tour bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons ; 

But of all the birds in the air, 
Here's health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. 

Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. 

Omnes. Bravo, bravo ! 

First Fellow. The Squire has got some spunk in 
him. 

Second Fellow. I loves to hear him sing, bekeays 
he never gives us nothing that's low. 

Third Fellow. Oh, damn anything that's low, I can- 
not bear it. 

Fourth Fellow. The genteel thing is the genteel 
thing any time ; if so be that a gentleman bees in a 
concatenation accordingly. 

Third Fellow. I like the maxum of it, Master 
Muggins. What though I am obligated to dance a 
bear, a man may be a gentleman for all that. May 
this be my poison, if my bear ever dances but to the 
very genteelest of tunes ; ' Water Parted,' or ' The 
minuet in Ariadne.' 

Second Fellow. What a pity it is the Squire is not 
come to his own. It would be well for all the publi- 
cans with ten miles round of him. 

Tony. Ecod, and so it would, Master Slang. I 'd 
then show what it was to keep choice of company. 

Second Fellow. Oh, he takes after his own father 
for that. To be sure, old Squire Lumpkin was the 
finest gentleman I ever set my eyes on. For winding 
the straight horn, or beating a thicket for a hare or a 
wench, he never had his fellow. It was a saying in 
the place, that he kept the best horses, dogs, and girls, 
in the whole county. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 283 

Tony. Ecod, and when I 'm of age I '11 be no bastard, 
I promise you. I nave been thinking of Bet Bouncer and 
the miller's gray mare to begin with. But come, my 
boys, drink about and be merry, for you pay no reckon- 
ing. Well, Stingo, what 's the matter ? 

Enter Landlord. 

Landlord. There be two gentlemen in a post-chaise 
at the door. They have lost their way upon the forest; 
and they are talking something about Mr. Hardcastle. 

Tony. As sure as can be, one of them must be the 
gentleman that 's coming down to court my sister. Do 
they seem to be Londoners ? 

Landlord. I believe they may. They look woundily 
like Frenchmen. 

Tony. Then desire them to step this way, and I '11 
set them right in a twinkling. [Exit Landlord. 

Gentlemen, as they may n't be good enough company for 
you, step down for a moment, and I '11 be with you in 
the squeezing of a lemon. [Exeunt mob. 

Tony. (Alone.) Father-in-law has been calling me 
whelp and hound this half year. Now, if I pleased, I 
could be so revenged upon the old grumbletonian. But 
then I 'm afraid, — afraid of what ? I shall soon be worth 
fifteen hundred a year, and let him frighten me out of 
that if he can. 

Enter Landlord, conducting Marlow and Hastings. 

Marlow. What a tedious, uncomfortable clay have we 
had of it ! We were told it was but forty miles across 
the country, and we have come above threescore. 



284 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. And all, Marlow, from that unaccounta- 
ble reserve of yours, that would not let us inquire 
more frequently on the way. 

Marlow. I own, Hastings, I am unwilling to lay 
myself under an obligation to every one I meet ; and 
often stand the chance of an unmannerly answer. 

Hastings. At present, however, we are not likely 
to receive any answer. 

Tony. No offence, gentlemen. But I'm told you 
have been inquiring for one Mr. Hardcastle, in these 
parts. Do you know what part of the country you 
are in? 

Hastings. Not in the least, sir, but should thank 
you for information. 

Tony. Nor the way you came ? 

Hastings. No, sir ; but if you can inform us 

Tony. Why, gentlemen, if you know neither the 
road you are going, nor where you are, nor the road 
you came, the first thing I have to inform you is, that 
— you have lost your way. 

Marlow. We wanted no ghost to tell us that. 

Tony. Pray, gentleman, may I be so bold as to ask 
the place from whence you came ? 

Marlow. That's not necessary towards directing us 
where we are to go. 

Tony. No offence ; but question for question is all 
fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same 
Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical 
fellow, with an ugly face : a daughter, and a pretty 
son? 

Hastings. We have not seen the gentleman ; but 
he has the family you mention. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER,. 285 

Tony. The daughter, a tall, trapesing, trolloping, 
talkative maypole ; the son, a pretty, well-bred, agree- 
able youth, that every body is fond of ? 

Marlow. Our information differs in this. The 
daughter is said to be well-bred, and beautiful ; the 
son an awkward booby, reared up and spoiled at his 
mother's apron-string. 

Tony. He-he-hem ! — Then, gentlemen, all I have to 
tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's 
house this night, I believe. 

Hastings. Unfortunate ! 

Tony. It's a damned long, dark, boggy, dirty, dan- 
gerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to 
Mr. Hardcastle's (winking upon the Landlord), Mr. 
Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh — you understand 



me 



Landlord. Master Hardcastle's ! Lock-a-daisy, my 
masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When 
you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have 
crossed down Squash Lane. 

Marlow. Cross down Squash Lane ? 

Landlord. Then you were to keep straight forward, 
till you came to four roads. 

Marlow. Come to where four roads meet ? 

Tony. Ay ; but you must be sure to take only one 
of them. 

Marlow. O sir, you're facetious. 

Tony. Then keeping to the right, you are to go 
sideways, till you come upon Crack-skull common: 
there you must look sharp for the track of the wheel, 
and go forward till you come to farmer Murrain's barm 



286 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Coming to the farmer's barn, you are to turn to the 
right, and then to the left, and then to the right about 
again, till you find out the old mill 

Marlow. Zounds, man ! we could as soon find out 
the longitude. 

Hasting?. What's to be done, Marlow ? 

Marlow. This house promises but a poor reception ; 
though perhaps the landlord can accommodate us. 

Landlord. Alack, master, we have but one spare 
bed in the whole house. 

Tony. And to my knowledge, that 's taken up by 
three lodgers already. {After a pause in which the rest 
seem disconcerted.') I have hit it : do n't you think, 
Stingo, our landlady could accommodate the gentlemen 
by the fireside, with — three chairs and a bolster ? 

Hastings. I hate sleeping by the fireside. 

Marlow. And I detest your three chairs and a bol- 
ster. 

Tony. You do, do you ? — then, let me see, — what 
if you go on a mile farther, to the Buck's Head ; the 
old Buck's Head on the hill, one of the best inns in 
the whole country. 

Hastings. ho ! so we have escaped an adventure 
for this night, however. 

Landlord. {Apart to Tony.) Sure, you be n't send- 
ing them to your father's as an inn, be you ? 

Tony. Mum, you fool you. Let them find that 
out. {To them.) You have only to keep on straight 
forward, till you come to a large old house by the road 
side. You'll see a pair of large horns over the door. 
That's the sign. Drive up the yard, and call stoutly 
about you. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 287 

Hastings. Sir, we are obliged to you. The ser- 
vants can't miss the way ? 

Tony. No, no : but I tell you though the landlord 
is rich, and going to leave off business ; so he wants to 
be thought a gentleman, saving your presence, he ! he ! 
he ! He '11 be for giving you his company ; and, ecod, 
if you mind him, he'll persuade you that his mother 
was an alderman, and his aunt a justice of peace. 

Landlord. A troublesome old blade, to be sure ; 
but as keeps good wines and beds as any in the whole 
country. 

Marlow. Well, if he supplies us with these, we 
shall want no further connection. We are to turn to 
the right, did you say ? 

Tony. No, no, straight forward ; I'll just step my- 
self, and show you a piece of the way. ( To the Land- 
lord.) Mum ! 

Landlord. Ah, bless your heart, for a sweet, pleas- 
ant — damned mischievous son of a whore. [Exeunt 



ACT SECOND. 

Scene I. — an old-fashioned house. 

Enter Hdrdcastle, followed by three or four awkioard 
Servants. 

Hardeastle. Well, I hope you are perfect in the 
table exercise I have been teaching you these three 
days. You all know your posts and your places, and 
can show that you have been used to good company. 
without ever stirring from home. 



288 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Omnes. Ay, ay. 

Hardcastle. "When company comes, you are not to 
pop out and stare, and then run in again, like frighted 
rabbits in a warren. 

Omnes. • No, no. 

Hardcastle. You, Diggory, whom I have taken from 
the barn, are to make a show at the side table ; and 
you, Roger, whom I have advanced from the plough, 
are to place yourself behind my chair. But you're not 
to stand so, with your hands in your pockets. Take 
your hands from your pockets, Roger — and from your 
head, you blockhead, you. See how Diggory carries 
his hands. They 're little too stiff, indeed, but that 's 
no great matter. 

Diggory. Ay, mind how I hold them. I learned 
to hold my hands this way, when I was upon drill for 
the malitia. And so being upon drill 

Hardcastle. You must not be so talkative, Diggory. 
You must be all attention to the guests ; you must hear 
us talk, and not think of talking ; you must see us 
drink, and not think of drinking ; you must see us eat, 
and not think of eating. 

Diggory. By the laws, your worship, that 's par- 
fectly unpossible. Whenever Diggory sees yeating 
going forward, ecod, he 's always wishing for a mouth- 
ful himself. 

Hardcastle. Blockhead ! is not a bellyful in the 
kitchen as good as a bellyful in the parlor ? Stay 
your stomach with that reflection. 

Diggory. Ecod, I thank your worship, I '11 make a 
shift to stay my stomach with a slice of cold beef in 
the pantry. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 289 

Hardcastle. Diggory, you are too talkative. Then, 
if I happen to say a good thing, or tell a good story at 
table, you must not all burst out a-laughing, as if you 
made part of the company. 

Diggory. Then, ecod, your worship must not tell 
the story of the Ould G-rouse in the gun-room ; I can't 
help laughing at that — he ! he ! he ! — for the soul of 
me. We have laughed at that these twenty years — 
ha ! ha ! ha. 

Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The story is a good one. 
Well, honest Diggory, you may laugh at that ; but 
still, remember to be attentive. Suppose one of the 
company should call for a glass of wine, how will you 
behave ? A glass of wine, sir, if you please, ( To Dig- 
gory) — Eh, why do n't you move ? 

Diggory. Ecod, your worship, I never have cour- 
age, till I see the eatables and drinkables brought upo' 
the table, and then I'm as bauld as a lion. 

Hardcastle. What, will nobody move ? 

First Servant. I'm not to leave this pleace. 

Second Servant. I'm sure it's no pleace of mine. 

Third Servant. Nor mine, for sartain. 

Diggory. Wauns, and I'm sure it canna be mine. 

Hardcastle. You numskulls ! and so while, like 
your betters, you are quarrelling for places, the guests 
must be starved. you dunces ! I find I must begin 
all over again But do n't I hear a coach drive in- 
to the yard ? To your posts, you blockheads. I'll go 
in the meantime, and give my old friend's son a hearty 
welcome at the gate. \_Exit Hardcastle. 

Diggory. By the elevens, my place is quite gone 
out my head. 25 



290 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Roger. I know that my place is to be every where. 
First Servant. Where the devil is mine ? 
Second Servant. My pleaee is to be no where at alL 
and so Ize go about my business. 

[Exeunt Servants, running about as if 
frightened, several wags. 

Enter Servant, with candles, showing in Marlow and 
Hastings. 

Servant. Welcome, gentlemen, very welcome ! This 
way. 

Hastings. After the disappointments of the day, wel- 
come once more, Charles, to the comforts of a clean room 
and a good fire. Upon my word, a very well-looking 
house : antique, but creditable. 

Marlow. The usual fate of a large mansion. Having 
first ruined the master by good house-keeping, it at last 
comes to levy contributions as an inn. 

Hastings. As you say, we passengers are to be taxed 
to pay all these fineries. I have often seen a good side- 
board, or a marble chimney-piece, though not actually put 
in the bill, inflame a reckoning confoundedly. 

Marlow. Travellers, George, must pay in all places; 
the only difference is, that in good inns you pay dearly 
for luxuries, in bad inns you are fleeced and starved. 

Hastings. You have lived pretty much among them. 
In truth I have been often surprised, that you who have 
seen so much of the world, with your natural good sense, 
and your many opportunities, could never yet acquire a 
requisite share of assurance. 

Marlow. The Englishman's malady. But tell me, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 291 

Greorge, where could I have learned that assurance you 
talk of ? My life has been chiefly spent in a college or 
an inn, in seclusion from that lovely part of the creation 
that chiefly teach men confidence. I do n't know that I 
was ever familiarly acquainted with a single modest wo- 
mau, except my mother. — But among females of another 
class, you know 

Hastings. Ay, among them you are impudent enough, 
of all conscience. 

Marloiv. They are of us, you know. 

Hastings. But in the company of women of reputation 
I never saw such an idiot — such a trembler ; you look 
for all the world as if you wanted an apportunity of steal- 
ing out of the room. 

Marlow. Why, man, that 's because I do want to steal 
out of the room. Faith, I have often formed a resolution 
to break the ice, and rattle away at any rate. But I 
do n't know how, a single glance from a pair of fine eyes 
has totally overset my resolution. An impudent fellow 
may counterfeit modesty, but I '11 be hanged if a modest 
man can ever counterfeit impudence. 

Hastings. If you could but say half the fine things to 
them that I have heard you lavish upon the bar-maid of 
an inn, or even a college bed-maker 

Marlow. Why, George, I can 't say fine things to 
them — they freeze, they petrify me. They may talk of 
a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle, 
but to me a modest woman, dressed out in all her finery, is 
the most tremendous object of the whole creation. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! At this rate, man, how can 
you ever expect to marry ? 



292 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. Never; unless as among kings and princes 
my bride were to be courted by proxy. If, indeed, like 
an Eastern bridegroom, one were to be introduced to a 
wife be never saw before, it might be endured. But to 
go through all the terrors of a formal courtship, together 
with the episode of aunts, grandmothers, and cousins, and 
at last to blurt out the broad staring question of ' Mad- 
am, will you marry me ? ' No, no, that 's a strain much 
above me, I assure you. 

Hastings. I pity you. But how do you intend be- 
having to the lady you are come down to visit at the re- 
quest of your father ? 

Marlow. As I behave to all other ladies : bow very 
low ; answer yes or no to all her demands. But for the 
rest, I do n't think I shall venture to look in her face till 
I see my father's again. 

Hastings. I 'm surprised that one who is so warm a 
friend can be so cool a lover. 

Marlow. To be explicit, my dear Hastings, my chief 
inducement down was to be instrumental in forwarding 
your happiness, not my own. Miss Neville loves you, 
the family do n't know you; as my friend, you are sure 
of a reception, and let honor do the rest. 

Hastings. My dear Marlow ! — But I '11 suppress the 
emotion. Were I a wretch, meanly seeking to carry off 
a fortune, you should be the last man in the world I 
would apply to for assistance. But Miss Neville's per- 
son is all I ask, and that is mine, both from her deceased 
father's consent, and her own inclination. 

Marlow. Happy man ! You have talents and art to 
captivate any woman. I 'm doomed to adore the sex, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 293 

and yet to converse with the only part of it I despise. 
This stammer in my address, and this awkward, unpre- 
possessing visage of mine can never permit me to soar 
above the reach of a milliner's 'prentice, or one of the 
Duchesses of Drury lane. Pshaw ! this fellow here to 
interrupt us. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Gentlemen, once more you are heartily 
welcome. Which is Mr. Marlow ? Sir, you are heartily 
welcome. It 's not my way, you see, to receive my 
friends with my back to the fire. I like to give them a 
hearty reception in the old style at my gate. I like to 
see their horses and trunks taken care of. 

Marlow. (Aside.) He has got our names from the 
servants already. (To him.) We approve your caution 
and hospitality, sir. (To Hastings.) I have been think- 
ing, George, of changing our travelling dresses in the 
morning. I am grown confoundedly ashamed of mine. 

Hardcastle. I beg, Mr. Marlow, you'll use no cere- 
mony in this house. 

Hastings. I fancy, Charles, you 're right; the first 
blow is half the battle. I intend opening the campaign 
with the white and gold. 

Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow — Mr. Hastings — gentle- 
men, pray be under no restraint in this house. This is 
Liberty-hall, gentlemen. You may do just as you please 
here. 

Marlow. Yet, George, if we open the campaign too 
fiercely at first, we may want ammunition before it is over. 
I think to reserve the embroidery to secure a retreat. 
25* 



294 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hardcasile. Your talking of a retreat, Mr. MarWw, 
puts rue in mind of the Duke of Marlborough, when 
we went to besiege Denain. He first summoned the 
garrison 



Marlow. Do n't you think the ventre d'or waistcoat 
will do with the plain brown ? 

Hardcasile. He first summoned the garrison, which 
might consist of about five thousand men 

Hastings. I think not : brown and yellow mix but 
very poorly. 

Hardcastle. I say, gentlemen, as I was telling you, 
he summoned the garrison, which might consist of 
about five thousand men 

Marlow. The girls like finery. 

Hardcastle. Which might consist of about five thou- 
sand men, well appointed with stores, ammunition, 
and other implements of war. Now, says the Duke of 
Marlborough to George Brooks, that stood next to him 
" — you must have heard of George Brooks — 'I'll 
pawn my dukedom,' says he, ' but I take that garrison 
without spilling a drop of blood.' So 

Marlow. "What, my good friend, if you gave us a 
glass of punch in the mean time ; it would help us to 
carry on the siege with vigor. 

Hardcastle. Punch, sir ! {Aside.) This is the 
most unaccountable kind of modesty I ever met with. 

Marlow. Yes, sir, punch. A glass of warm punch 
after our journey, will be comfortable. This is Liber- 
ty-hall, you know. 

Enter Roger with a cup. 

Hardcastle. Here's a cup, sir. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 295 

Marlow. (Aside.) So this fellow, in his Liberty- 
hall, will only let us have just what he pleases. 

Hardcastle. (Taking the cup.) I hope you'll find 
it to your mind. I have prepared it with my own 
hands, and I believe you'll own the ingredients are tol- 
erable. Will you be so good as to pledge me, sir? 
Here, Mr. Marlow, here is to our better acquaintance. 

(Drinks.) 
Marlow. (Aside.) A very impudent fellow this ; 
but he's a character, and I '11 humor him a little. Sir, 
my service to you. (Drinks.) 

Hastings. (Aside.) I see this fellow wants to give 
us his company, and forgets that he's an innkeeper, 
before he has learned to be a gentleman. 

Marlow. From the excellence of your cup, my old 
friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in 
this part of the county. "Warm work, now and then, 
at elections, I suppose. 

Hardcastle. No, sir, I have long given that work 
over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient 
of electing each other, there is no business ' for us that 
sell ale.' 

Hastings. So, then, you have no turn for politics, 
I find. 

Hardcastle. Not in the least. There was a time, 
indeed, I fretted myself about the mistakes of govern- 
ment, like other people ; but, finding myself every day 
grow more angry, and the government growing no bet- 
ter, I left it to mend itself. Since that, I no more 
trouble my head about Hyder Ally, or Ally Cawn, 
than about Ally Croaker. Sir, my service to you. 

Hastings. So that with eating above stairs and 
drinking below, with receiving your friends within and 



296 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

amusing them without, you lead a good, pleasant, bust- 
ling life of it. 

Harclcastle. I do stir about a great deal, that's cer- 
tain. Half the differences of the parish are adjusted 
in this very parlor. 

Marlow. (After drinking.) And you have an ar- 
gument in your cup, old gentleman, better than any in 
Westminster-hall. 

Hardcastle. Ay, young gentleman, that, and a little 
philosophy. 

Marlow. (Aside.) Well, this is the first time I 
ever heard of an innkeeper's philosphy. 

Hastings. So, then, like an experienced general, 
you attack them on every quarter. If you find their 
reason manageable, you attack it with your philosophy ; 
if you find they have no reason, you attack them with 
this. Here 's your health, my philosopher. (Drinks.) 

Hardcastle. Good, very good, thank you ; ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Your generalship puts me in mind of Prince 
Eugene, when he fought the Turks at the battle of 
Belgrade. You shall hear. 

Marlow. Instead of the battle of Belgrade, I believe 
it 's almost time to talk about supper. What has your 
philosophy got in the house for supper ? 

Hardcastle. For supper, sir ! (Aside.) Was ever 
such a request to a man in his own house ! 

Marlow. Yes, sir, supper, sir ; I begin to feel an 
appetite. I shall make devilish work to-night in the 
larder, I promise you. 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) Such a brazen dog sure never 
my eyes beheld. ( To him.) Why, really sir, as for supper 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 297 

I can 't well tell. My Dorothy and the cook-maid settle 
these things between them. I leave these kind of things 
entirely to them. 

Marlow. You do, do you ? 

Hardcastle. Entirely. By the by, I believe they are 
in actual consultation upon what 's for supper tins mo- 
ment in the kitchen. 

Marlow. Then I beg they '11 admit me as one of 
their privy-council. It 's a way I have got. When I 
travel I always choose to regulate my own supper. Let 
the cook be called. No offence, I hope, sir. 

Hardcastle. 0, no, sir, none in the least; yet I don't 
know now, our Bridget, the cook-maid, is not very com- 
municative upon these occasions. Should we send for 
her, she might scold us all out of the house. 

Hastings. Let 's see your list of the larder, then. I 
ask it as a favor. I always match my appetite to my 
bill of fare. 

Marloio. ( To Hardcastle, who looks at them with sur- 
prise.) Sir, he 's very right, and it 's my way, too. 

Hardcastle. Sir, you have a right to command here. 
Here, Roger, bring us the bill of fare for to-night's sup- 
per; I believe it 's drawn out. — Your manner, Mr. Has- 
tings, puts me in mind of my uncle, Colonel Wallop. It 
was a saying of his, that no man was sure of his supper 
till he had eaten it. 

Enter Roger. 

Hastings. {Aside.) All upon the high rope ! His 
uncle a colonel ! we shall soon hear of his mother being 
a justice of the peace. But let 's hear the bill of fare. 

Marlow. {Perusing. ) What 's here ? For the first 



298 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 

course ; for the second course ; for the dessert. The 
devil, sir, do you think we have brought down the 
whole Joiners' Company, or the Corporation of Bed- 
ford, to eat up such a supper ? Two or three little 
things, clean and comfortable, will do. 

Hastings. But let's hear it. 

Marlow. (Reading.) i For the first course, — at 
the top a pig, and pruin-sauce.' 

Hastings. Damn your pig, I say. 

Marlow. And damn your pruin-sauce, say I. 

Hardcastle. And yet, gentlemen, to men that are 
hungry, pig with pruin-sauce is very good eating. 

Marlow. 'At the bottom a calf's tongue and brains.' 

Hastings. Let your brains be knocked out, my good 
sir, I don't like them. 

Marlow. Or you may clap them on a plate by them- 
selves. 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) Their impudence confounds 
me. (To them.) Gentlemen, you are my guests, make 
what alterations you please. Is there anything else 
you wish to retrench, or alter, gentlemen ? 

Marlow. ' Item : A pork pie, a boiled rabbit and 
sausages, a Florentine, a shaking pudding, and a dish 
of tiff — taff — taffety cream ! ' 

Hastings. Confound your made dishes ; I shall be 
as much at a loss in this house as at a green and yellow 
dinner at the French ambassador's table. I'm for 
plain eating. 

Hardcastle. I'm sorry, gentlemen, that I have no- 
thing you like.; but if there be any thing you have a 
particular fancy to 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 299 

Marlow. Why, really, sir, your bill of fare is so 
exquisite, that any one part of it is full as good as an- 
other. Send us what you please. So much for sup- 
per. And now to see that our beds are aired, and pro- 
perly taken care of. 

Hardcastle. I entreat you'll leave all that to me. 
You shall not stir a step. 

Marlow. Leave that to you ! I protest, sir, you 
must excuse me : I always look to these things myself. 

Hardcastle. I must insist, sir, you'll make yourself 
easy on that head. 

Marlow. You see I'm resolved on it. (Aside.) A 
very troublesome fellow this, as ever I met with. 

Hardcastle. Well, sir, I'm resolved at least to at- 
tend you. (Aside.) This may be modern modesty, 
but I never saw any thing look so like old-fashioned 
impudence. \_Exewit Marloio and Hardcastle. 

Hastings. (Alone.) So I find this fellow's civil- 
ities begin to grow troublesome. But who can be an- 
gry at those assiduities which are meant to please him ? 
Ha ! what do I see ? Miss Neville, by all that's happy ! 

Enter Miss Neville. 

Miss Neville. My dear Hastings ! To what unex- 
pected good fortune — to what accident, am I to as- 
cribe this happy meeting ? 

Hastings. Rather let me ask the same question, as 
I could never have hoped to meet my dearest Con- 
stance at an inn. 

Miss Neville. An inn ! sure you mistake : my aunt, 
my guardian, lives here. What could induce you to 
think this house an inn ? 



300 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. My friend, Mr. Marlow, with whom \ 
came clown, and I, have been sent here as to an inn, I 
assure you. A young fellow whom we accidentally 
met at a house hard by, directed us hither. 

Miss Neville. Certainly it must be one of my hope- 
ful cousin's tricks, of whom you have heard me talk so 
often ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hastings. He whom your aunt intends for you ? he 
of whom I have such just apprehensions? 

Miss Neville. You have nothing to fear from him, 
I assure you. You 'd adore him if you knew how 
heartily he despises me. My aunt knows it too, and 
has undertaken to court me for him, and actually be- 
gins to think she has made a conquest. 

Hastings. Thou dear dissembler ! You must know, 
my Constance, I have just seized this happy opportu- 
nity of my friend's visit here to get admittance into 
the family. The horses that carried us down are now 
fatigued with their journey, but they'll soon be re- 
freshed ; and, then, if my dearest girl will trust in her 
faithful Hastings, we shall soon be landed in France, 
where even among the slaves the laws of marriage are 
respected. 

Miss Neville. I have often told you, that though 
ready to obey you, I yet should leave my little fortune be- 
hind with reluctance. The greatest part of it was left me 
by my uncle, the India director, and chiefly consists in 
jewels. I have been for some time persuading my aunt 
to let me wear them. I fancy I'm very near succeed- 
ing. The instant they are put into my possession, you 
shall find me ready to make them and myself yours. 

Hastings. Perish the baubles ! Your person is all 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 301 

I desire. In the meantime, my friend Marlow must 
not be let into his mistake. I know the strange re- 
serve of his temper is such, that if abruptly informed 
of it, he would instantly quit the house before our plan 
was ripe for execution. 

Miss Neville. But how shall we keep him in the 
deception ? — Miss Hardcastle is just returned from 
walking — "What if we still continue to deceive him? 

— This, this way [ They confer. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. The assiduities of these good people tease 
me beyond bearing. My host seems to think it ill 
manners to leave me alone, and so he claps not only him- 
self, but his old-fashioned wife on my back. They talk 
of coming to sup with us too ; and then, I suppose, we 
are to run the gauntlet through all the rest of the fam- 
ily. What have we got here ? 

Hastings. My clear Charles ! Let me congratulate 
you — ■ The most fortunate accident ! — Who do you 
think is just alighted ? 

Marlow. Cannot guess. 

Hastings. Our mistresses, boy, Miss Hardcastle and 
Miss Nevdle. Give me leave to introduce Miss Con- 
stance Neville to your acquaintance. Happening to 
dine in the neighborhood, they called on their return 
to take fresh horses here. Miss Hardcastle has just 
stept into the next room, and will be back in an instant. 
Was n't it lucky ? eh ! 

Marlow. {Aside.) I have been mortified enough of 
all conscience, and here comes something to complete 
my embarrassment. 26 



302 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. "Well, but was n't it the most fortunate 
thing in the world ? 

Marlow. Oh, yes. Very fortunate — a most joyful 
encounter. But our dresses, George, you know, are 
in disorder — "What if we should postpone the happi- 
ness till to-morrow ? — to-morrow at her own house — 
It will be every bit as convenient — and rather more 
respectful — To-morrow let it be. [ Offering to go. 

Hastings. By no means, sir. Your ceremony will 
displease her. The disorder of your: dress will show 
the ardor of your impatience. Besides, she knows you 
are in the house, and will permit you to see her. 

Marlow. Oh, the devil! How shall I support it? 
— Hem ! hem ! Hastings you must not go. You are 
to assist me, you know. I shall be confoundedly ridic- 
ulous. Yet hang it ! I'll take courage. Hem ! 

Hastings. Pshaw, man ! it's but the first plunge, 
and all's over. She's but a women, you know. 

Marlow. And of all women, she that I dread most 
to encounter. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, as returned from walking. 

Hastings. {Introducing them.) Miss Hardcastle, 
Mr. Marlow, I'm proud of bringing two persons of 
such merit together, that only want to know, to esteem 
each other. 

Miss Hardcastle. {Aside.) Now for meeting my 
modest gentleman with a demure face, and quite in his 
own manner. {After a pause, in which he appears very 
uneasy and disconcerted.) I'm glad of your safe arrival, 
sir. I'm told you had some accidents by the way. 

Marlow. Only a few, madam. Yes, we had some 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 303 

Yes, madam, a good many accidents, but should he 
sorry — madam — or rather glad of any accidents — 
that are so agreeably concluded. Hem ! 

Hastings. (To him.) You never spoke better in your 
whole life. Keep it up, and I '11 insure you the vic- 
tory. 

Miss Hardcastle. I 'm afraid you natter, sir. You 
that have seen so much of the finest company, can find 
little entertainment in an obscure corner of the country. 
Marlow. ( Gathering courage.) I have lived, indeed, 
in the world, madam ; but I have kept very little com- 
pany. I have been but an observer upon life, madam, 
while others were enjoying it. 

Miss Neville. But that, I am told, is the way to 
enjoy it at last. 

Hastings. (To him.) Cicero never spoke better. 

Once more, and you are confirmed in assurance for ever. 

Ma.rlow. ( To him.) Hem ! stand by me then, and 

when I 'm down, throw in a word or two to set me up 

again. 

Miss Hardcastle. An observer, like you, upon life 
were, I fear, disagreeably employed, since you must 
have had much more to censure than to approve. 

Marlow. Pardon me, madam. I was always wilL 
ing to be amused. The folly of most people is rathei 
an object of mirth than uneasiness. 

Hastings. (To him.) Bravo, bravo. Never spoke 
so well in your whole life. Well, Miss Hardcastle, I see 
that you and Mr. Marlow are going to be very good 
company. I believe our being here will but embarrass 
the interview. 



304 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. Not in the least, Mr. Hastings. We like 
your company of all things. {To him.) Zounds, 
George, sure you won't go ? how can you leave us ? 

Hastings. Our presence will but spoil conversation, 
so we '11 retire to the next room. ( To him.) You do n't 
consider, man, that we are to manage a little tete-a-tete 
of our own. [Exeunt. 

Miss Hardcastle. {After a pause.) But you have not 
been wholly an observer, I jDresume, sir : the ladies, I 
should hope, have employed some part of your ad- 
dresses. 

Marlow. {Relapsing into timidity.) Pardon me, 
madam, I — I — I — as yet have studied — only — to 
— deserve them. 

Miss Hardcastle. And that, some say, is the very 
worst way to obtain them. 

Marlow. Perhaps so, madam. But I love to con- 
verse only with the more grave and sensible j>art of 
the sex — But I 'm afraid I grow tiresome. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not at all, sir ; there is nothing 
I like so much as grave conversation myself ; I could 
hear it for ever. Indeed I have often been surprised 
how a man of sentiment could ever admire those light, 
airy pleasures, where nothing reaches the heart. 

Marlow. It 's a disease of the mincl, madam, 

in the variety of tastes there must be some who, want- 
ing a relish for uin — u — um — 

Miss Hardcastle. I understand you, sir. There must 
be some who, wanting a relish for refined pleasures, 
pretend to despise what they are incapable of tast' 
ing. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 305 

Marlow. My meaning, madam, but infinitely better 
expressed. And I can 't help observing a 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Who could ever suppose 
this fellow impudent upon some occasions! (To him.) 
You were going to observe, sir, 

Marloio. I was observing, madam, — I protest, mad- 
am, I forget what I was going to observe. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Aside.) I vow and so do I. (To 
him.) You were observing, sir, that in this age of hy- 
pocrisy, — something about hypocrisy, sir. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. In this age of hypocrisy there 
are few who, upon strict incpiiry, do not — a — a 

Miss Hardcastle. I understand you perfectly, sir. 

Marlow. (Aside.) Egad! and that 's more than I 
do myself. 

Miss Hardcastle. You mean that, in this hypocritical 
age, there are a few who do not condemn in public what 
they practice in private, and think they pay every debt 
to virtue when they praise it. 

Marloio. True, madam; those who have most virtue 
in their mouths have least of it in their bosoms. But 
I 'm sure I tire you, madam. 

Miss Hardcastle. Not in the least, sir; there's some- 
thing so agreeable and spirited in your manner, such life 
and force, — pray, sir, go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was saying that there 

are some occasions — when a total want of courage, mad- 
am, destroys all the and puts us upon a — 

a — a 

Miss Hardcastle. I agree with you entirely ; a wan- 
26* 



306 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

of courage upon some occasions, assumes the appear- 
ance of ignorance, and betrays us when we most want 
to excel. I beg you '11 proceed. 

Marlow. Yes, madam. Morally speaking, madam 
— but I see Miss Neville expecting us in the next 
room. I would not intrude for the world. 

Miss Hardcastle. I protest, sir, I never was more 
agreeably entertained in all my life. Pray go on. 

Marlow. Yes, madam, I was But she beckons 

us to join her. Madam, shall I do myself the honor 
to attend you ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Well, then, I '11 follow. 

Marlow. (Aside.) This pretty smooth dialogue 
has done for me. \_Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. (Alone.) Ha ! ha ! ha ! Was there 
ever such a sober, sentimental interview ? I 'm certain 
he scarce looked in my face the whole time. Yet the 
fellow, but for his unaccountable bashfulness, is pretty 
well too. He has good sense, but then so buried in 
his fears, that it fatigues one more than ignorance. If 
I could teach him a little confidence, it would be doing 
somebody that I know of a piece of service. But who 
is that somebody. That, faith, is a question I can 
scarce answer. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville, followed by Mrs. Hard- 
castle and Hastings. 

Tony. What do you follow me for, cousin Con ? I 
wonder you 're not ashamed to be so very engaging. 

Miss Neville. I hope, cousin, one may speak to 
one's own relations, and not be to blame. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 307 

Tony. Ay, but I know what sort of a relation you 
want to make me though ; but it won't do. I tell you, 
cousin Con, it won't do ; so I beg you '11 keep your dis- 
tance — I want no nearer relationship. 

[She follows, coquetting him to the hack scene. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I vow, Mr. Hastings, you 
are very entertaining. There 's nothing in the world 
I love to talk of so much as London, and the fashions ; 
though I was never there myself. 

Hastings. Never there ! You amaze me ! From your 
air and manner, I concluded you had been bred all your 
life either at Ranelagh, St. James's or Tower Wharf. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, sir, you 're only pleased to say 
so. We country persons can have no manner at all. 
I 'in in love with the town, and that serves to raise me 
above some of our neighboring rustics ; but who can 
have a manner, that has never seen the Pantheon, the 
Grotto Gardens, the Borough, and such places, where 
the nobility chiefly resort ? All I can do is to enjoy 
London at second-hand. I take care to know every 
tete-a-tete from the Scandalous Magazine, and have 
all the fashions, as they come out, in a letter from the 
two Miss Rickets of Crooked Lane. Pray, how do 
you like this head, Mr. Hastings ? 

Hastings. Extremely elegant and degagee, upon my 
word, madam. Your friseur is a Frenchman, I sup- 
pose? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I protest, I dressed it myself from 
a print in the Ladies' Memorandum-book for the last 
year. 

Hastings. Indeed ! Such a head in a side-box at the 



308 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

play-house, would draw as many gazers as my Lady 
Mayoress at a city ball. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I vow, since inoculation began, 
there is no such thing to be seen as a plain woman ; so 
one must dress a little particular, or one may escape 
in the crowd. 

Hastings. But that can never be your case, madam, 
in any dress. {Bowing.) 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yet what signifies my dressing, 
when I have such a piece of antiquity by my side as 
Mr. Hardcastle ? all I can say will never argue down 
a single button from his clothes. I have often wanted 
him to throw off his great flaxen wig, and where he 
was bald, to plaster it over, like my Lord Pately, with 
powder. 

Hastings. You are right, madam ; for, as among 
the ladies there are none ugly, so among the men there 
are none old. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. But what do you think his answer 
was ? Why, with his usual Gothic vivacity, he said I 
only wanted him to throw off his wig to convert it into 
a tete for my own wearing. 

Hastings. Intolerable ! At your age you may wear 
what you please, and it must become you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pray, Mr. Hastings, what do you 
take to be the most fashionable age about town ? 

Hastings. Some time ago, forty was all the mode ; 
but I'm told the ladies intend to bring up fifty for the 
ensuing winter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Seriously ? Then I shall be too 
young for the fashion. 

Hastings. No lady begins now to put on jewels till 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 309 

she's past forty. For instance, miss there, in a polite 
circle, would be considered as a child — a mere maker 
of samplers. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. And yet, my niece thinks herself 
as much a woman, and is as fond of jewels, as the old- 
est of us all. 

Hastings. Your niece, is she ? And that young 
gentleman — a brother of yours, I should presume ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My son, sir. They are contracted 
to each other. Observe their little sports. They fall in 
and out ten times a-day, as if they were man and wife 
already. (To them.) Well, Tony, child, what soft 
things are you saying to your cousin Constance this 
evening ? 

Tony. I have been saying no soft things ; but that 
it's very hard to be followed about so. Ecod ! I've not 
a place in the house now that's left to myself, but the 
stable. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Never mind him, Con, my clear : 
he's in another story behind your back. 

Miss Neville. There's something generous in my 
cousin's manner. He falls out before faces, to be for- 
given in private. 

Tony. That's a damned confounded — crack. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he's a sly one. Do n't you 
think they're like each other about the mouth, Mr. 
Hastings ? The Blenkinsop mouth to a T. They're 
of a size, too. Back to back, my pretties, that Mr. 
Hastings may see you. Come, Tony. 

Tony. You had as good not make me, I tell you. 

(Measuring.) 

Miss Neville. lud ! he has almost cracked my head. 



310 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, the monster ! for shame, Tony, 
You a man, and behave so ! 

Tony. If I'm a man, let me have my fortin. Ecod, 
I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Is this, ungrateful boy, all that 
I'm to get for the pains I have taken in your educa- 
tion ? I that have rocked you ir. your cradle, and fed 
that pretty mouth with a spoon ? Did not I work that 
waistcoat to make you genteel ? Did not I prescribe 
for you every day, and weep while the receipt was 
operating ? 

Tony. Ecod ! you had reason to weep, for you have 
been dosing me ever since I was born. I have gone 
through every receipt in the Complete Housewife ten 
times over ; and you have thoughts of coursing me 
through Quincey next spring. But, Ecod ! I tell you, 
I'll not be made a fool of no longer. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was n't it all for your good, viper ? 
Was n't it all for your good ? 

Tony. I wish you'd let me and my good alone, 
then. Snubbing this way when I'm in spirits ! If I'm 
to have any good, let it come of itself ; not to keep 
dinging it, dinging it into one so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. That's false ; I never see you when 
you're in spirits. No, Tony, you then go to the ale- 
house or kennel. I'm never to be delighted with your 
agreeable wild notes, unfeeling monster ! 

Tony. Ecod ! mamma, your own notes are the 
wildest of the two. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was ever the like ? But I see he 
wants to break my heart ; I see he does. 

Hastings. Dear madam, permit me to lecture the 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 311 

young gentleman a little. I'm certain I can persuade 
him to his duty. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, I must retire. Come, Con- 
stance, my love. You see, Mr. Hastings, the wretched- 
ness of my situation : was ever poor woman so plagued 
with a dear, sweet, pretty, provoking, undutiful hoy ! 
\_Exeunt Mrs. Hardcastle and Miss Neville. 

Tony. {Singing.) 

There was a young man riding by, 
And fain would have his will. 

Rang do didlo dee. 

Do n't mind her. Let her cry. It's the comfort of 
her heart. I have seen her and sister cry over a book 
for an hour together ; and they said they liked the 
book the better the more it made them cry. 

Hastings. Then you're no friend to the ladies, I 
find, my pretty young gentleman ? 

Tony. That's as I find 'urn. 

Hastings. Not to hear of your mother's choosing, 
I dare answer ? And yet she appears to me a pretty, 
well-tempered girl. 

Tony. That's because you do n't know her as well 

as I. Ecod ! I know every inch about her ; and there's 

not a more bitter cantanckerous toad in all Christendom. 

Hastings. {Aside.) Pretty encouragement for a lover. 

Tony. I have seen her since the height of that. 
She has as many tricks as a hare in a thicket, or a colt 
the first day's breaking. 

Hastings. To me she appears sensible and silent. 



312 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. Ay, before company. But when she's with 
her piaymates, she's as loud as a hog in a gate. 

Hastings. But there is a meek modesty about her 
that charms me. 

Tony. Yes, but curb her never so little, she kicks 
up, and you're flung in a ditch. 

Hastings. Well, but you must allow her a little 
beauty. Yes, you must allow her some beauty. 

Tony. Bandbox ! She's all a made-up thing, num. 
Ah ! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you 
might then talk of beauty. Ecod ! she has two eyes as 
black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit 
cushion. She'd make two of she. 

Hastings. Well, what say you to a friend that 
would take this bitter bargain off your hands ? 

Tony. Anan ! 

Hastings. Would you thank him that would take 
Miss Neville, and leave you to happiness and your 
dear Betsey ? 

Tony. Ay ; but where is there such a friend — for 
who would take her ? 

Hastings. I am he. If you but assist me, I'll en- 
gage to whip her off to France, and you shall never 
hear more of her. 

Tony. Assist you ! Ecod I will to the last drop 
of my blood. I'll clap a pair of horses to your chaise 
that shall trundle you off in a twinkling, and may be 
get you a part of her fortin besides, in jewels, that 
you little dream of. 

Hastings. My dear Squire, this looks like a lad of 
spirit. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 313 

Tony. Come along, then, and you shall see more of 
my spirit before you have done with me. (Singing.) 

We are the boys 

That fears no noise, 

Where the thundering cannons roar. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT THIED. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. What could my old friend Sir Charles 
mean by recommending his son as the modestest young 
man in town ? To me he appeai-s the most impudent 
piece of brass that ever spoke with a tongue. He has 
taken possession of the easy chair by the fire-side al- 
ready. He took off his boots in the parlor, and de- 
sired me to see them taken care of. I'm desirous to 
know how his impudence affects my daughter. She 
will certainly be shocked at it. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle, plainly dressed. 

Hardcastle. Well, my Kate, I see you have changed 
your dress, as I bid you ; and yet, I believe, there was 
no great occasion. 

Miss Hardcastle. I find such a pleasure, sir, in 
obeying your commands, that I take care to observe 
them without ever debating their propriety. 

Hardcastle. And yet, Kate, I sometimes give you 
27 



314 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

some cause, particularly when I recommended my 
modest gentleman to you as a lover to-day. 

Miss Hardcastle. You taught me to expect some- 
thing extraordinary, and I find the original exceeds 
the description. 

Hardcastle. I was never so surprised in my life ! 
He has quite confounded all my faculties. 

Miss Hardcastle. I never saw anything like it ; and 
a man of the world, too ! 

Hardcastle. Ay, he learned it all abroad — what a 
fool was I, to think a young man could learn modesty 
by travelling. He might as soon learn wit at a mas- 
querade. 

Miss Hardcastle. It seems all natural to him. 

Hardcastle. A good deal assisted by bad company 
and a French dancing-master. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sure you mistake, papa. A French 
dancing-master could never have taught him that timid 
look — that awkward address — that bashful manner. 

Hardcastle. Whose look? whose manner, child? 

Miss Hardcastle. Mr. Marlow's : his mauvaise konte, 
his timidity, struck me at the first sight. 

Hardcastle. Then your first sight deceived you : 
for I think him one of the most brazen first sights that 
ever astonished my senses. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sure, sir, you rally ! I never saw 
any one so modost. 

Hardcastle. And can you be serious ? I never saw 
such a bouncing, swaggering puppy since I was born. 
Bully Dawson was but a fool to him. 

Mi$& Hardcastle. Surprising ! He met me with a re- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 315 

spectful bow, a stammering voice, and a look fixed on 
the ground. 

Hardcastle. He met me with a loud voice, a lordly 
air, and a familiarity that made my blood freeze again. 

Miss Hardcastle. He treated me with diffidence and 
respect ; censured the manners of the age ; admired the 
prudence of girls that never laughed, tired me with 
apologies for being tiresome, then left the room with a 
bow and ' Madam, I would not for the world detain you.' 

Hardcastle. He spoke to me as if he knew me all his 
life before, asked twenty questions, and never waited 
for an answer, interrupted my best remarks with some 
silly pun, and when I was in my best story of the 
Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, he asked if 
I had not a good hand at making punch. Yes, Kate, 
he asked your father if he was a maker of punch. 

Miss Hardcastle. One of us must certainly be mis- 
taken. 

Hardcastle. If he be what he has shown himself, 
I'm determined he shall never have my consent. 

Miss Hardcastle. And if he be the sullen thing I 
take him, he shall never have mine. 

Hardcastle. In one thing, then, we are agreed — to 
reject him. 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes — but upon conditions. For 
if you should find him less impudent, and I more 
presuming ; if you find him more respectful, and I 
more importunate — I do n't know — the fellow is well 
enough for a man — certainly we don't meet many 
such at a horse-race in the country. 

Hardcastle. If we should find him so But that's 



316 SHE STOOPS TO CONQtIEK. 

impossible. The first appearance has done my busi- 
ness. I'm seldom deceived in that. 

Miss Hardcasile. And yet there may be many good 
qualities under that first appearance. 

Hardcasile. Ay, when a girl finds a fellow's outside 
to her taste, she then sets about guessing the rest of 
his furniture. With her a smooth face stands for good 
sense, and a genteel figure for every virtue. 

Miss Hardcasile. I hope, sir, a conversation begun 
with a compliment to my good sense, won't end with a 
sneer at my understanding ! 

Hardcasile. Pardon me, Kate. But if young Mr. 
Brazen can find the art of reconciling contradictions, 
he may please us both, perhaps. 

Miss Hardcasile. And as one of us must be mis- 
taken, what if we go to make farther discoveries ? 

Hardcasile. Agreed. But depend on't, I'm in the 
right. 

Miss Hardcasile. And, depend on't, I'm not much 
in the wrong. \_Exeunt. 

Enter Tony, running in with a casket. 

Tony. Ecod ! I have got them. Here they are. 
My cousin Con's necklaces, bobs and all. My mother 
shan't cheat the poor souls out of their fortin neither. 
my genus, is that you ? 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. My dear friend, how have you managed 
with your mother ? I hope you have amused her with 
pretending love for your cousin, and that you are will- 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 317 

ing to be reconciled at last ? Our horses will be re- 
freshed, in a short time, and we shall soon be ready to 
set off. 

Tony. And here's something to bear your charges 
by the way — (giving the casket) — your sweetheart's 
jewels. Keep them ; and hang those, I say, that would 
rob you of one of them. 

Hastings. But how have you procured them from 
your mother ? 

Tony. Ask me no questions, and I'll tell you no 
fibs. I procured them by the rule of thumb. If I had 
not a key to every draw in my mother's bureau, how 
could I go to the alehouse so often as I do ? An hon- 
est man may rob himself of his own at any time. 

Hastings. Thousands do it every day. But, to be 
plain with you, Miss Neville is endeavoring to procure 
them from her aunt this very instant. If she succeeds, 
it will be the most delicate way, at least, of obtaining 
them. 

Tony. Well, keep them, until you know how it will 
be. But I know how it will be well enough, — she'd 
as soon part with the only sound tooth in her head. 

Hastings. But I dread the effects of her resentment 
when she finds she has lost them. 

Tony. Never you mind her resentment ; leave me 
to manage that. I don't value her resentment the 
bounce of a crackei\ Zounds ! here they are. Mor- 
rice ! Prance ! \_Exit Hastings. 

Tony, Mrs. Hardcastle, and Miss Neville. 
Mrs. Hardcastle. Indeed, Constance, you amaze me. 
Such a girl as you want jewels ! It will be time enough 

27* 



318 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

for jewels, my dear, twenty years hence, when your 
beauty begins to want repairs. 

Miss Neville. But what will repair beauty at forty, 
will certainly improve it at twenty, madam. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Yours, my clear, can admit of none. 
That natural blush is beyond a thousand ornaments. 
Besides, child, jewels are quite out at present. Don't 
you see half the ladies of our acquaintance, my Lady 
Killdaylight, and Mrs. Crump, and the rest of them, 
carry their jewels to town, and bring nothing but paste 
and marcasites back ? 

Miss Neville. But who knows, madam, but some- 
body that shall be nameless would like me best with 
all my little finery about me ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Consult your glass, my dear, and 
then see if, with such a pair of eyes, you want any 
better sparklers. What do you think, Tony, my dear ? 
Does your cousin Con want any jewels in your eyes 
to set off her beauty ? 

Tony. That's as hereafter may be. 

Miss Neville. My dear aunt, if you knew how it 
would oblige me. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A parcel of old-fashioned rose and 
table-cut things. They would make you look like the 
court of King Solomon at a puppet-show. Besides, I 
believe I can't readily come at them. They may be 
missing for aught I know to the contrary. 

Tony. (Apart to Mrs. Hardcastle.) Then why don't 
you tell her so at once, as she's so longing for them ? 
Tell her they're lost. It's the only way to quiet her. 
Say they're lost, and call me to bear witness. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 319 

Mrs. Hardcastle. {Apart to Tony.) You know, my 
dear, I'm only keeping them for you. So if I say they 
are gone, you'll bear me witness, will you ? He ! 
he ! he ! 

Tony. Never fear me. Ecod ! I'll say I saw them 
taken out with my own eyes. 

Miss Neville. I desire them but for a day, madam 
— just to be permitted to show them as relics, and then 
they may be locked up again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. To be plain with you, my dear 
Constance, if I could find them you should have them. 
They are missing, I assure you. Lost, for aught I 
know ; but we must have patience, wherever they are. 

Miss Neville. I'll not believe it ; this is but a shallow 
pretence to deny me. I know they are too valuable to be 
so slightly kept, and as you are to answer for the loss — 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Do n't be alarmed, Constance. If 
they be lost, I must restore an equivalent. But my 
son knows they are missing, and not to be found. 

Tony. That I can bear witness to. They are miss- 
ing, and not to be found ; I'll take my oath on't. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. You must learn resignation, my 
dear ; for though we lose our fortune, yet we should 
not lose our patience. See me, how calm I am. 

Miss Neville. Ay, people are generally calm at the 
misfortunes of others. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Now, I wonder a girl of j r our good 
sense should waste a thought upon such trumpery. We 
shall soon find them ; and in the mean time you shall 
make use of my garnets till your jewels be found. 

Miss Neville. I detest garnets. 



320 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. The most becoming things in the 
world to set off a clear complexion. You have often 
seen how well they look upon me. You shall have 
them. \_Exit. 

Miss Neville. I dislike them of all things. You 
shan't stir. Was ever any thing so provoking, to mis- 
lay my own jewels and force me to wear her trumpery ? 

Tony. Do n't be a fool. If she gives you the gar- 
nets take what you can get. The jewels are your own 
already. I have stolen them out of her bureau, and 
she does not know it. Fly to your spark ; he '11 tell 
you more of the matter. Leave me to manage her. 

Miss Neville. My dear cousin ? 

Tony. Vanish. She 's here, and has missed them 
already. [Exit Miss Neville.^ Zounds ! how she 
fidgets and spits about like a Catharine wheel. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Confusion ! thieves ! robbers ! we 
are cheated, plundered, broke open, undone. 

Tony. What 's the matter, what 's the matter, mam- 
ma ? I hope nothing has happened to any of the good 
family ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. We are robbed. My bureau has 
been broken open, the jewels taken out, and I 'm un- 
done. 

Tony. Oh! is that all? Ha! ha! ha! By the 
laws I never saw it better acted in my life. Ecod, I 
thought you was ruined in earnest, ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Why, boy, I am ruined in earnest. 
My bureau has been broken open, and all taken away. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 321 

Tony. Stick to that, ha ! ha ! ha ! stick to that. 
I '11 bear witness, you know ! call me to bear witness. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I tell you, Tony, by all that 's pre- 
cious, the jewels are gone, and I shall be ruined forever. 

Tony. Sure I know they are gone, and I am to say so. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My dearest Tony, but hear me. 
They 're gone, I say. 

Tony. By the laws, mamma, you make me for to 
laugh, ha ! ha ! I know who took them well enough, 
ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a blockhead, 
that can 't tell the difference between jest and earnest ! 
I can tell you I 'm not in jest, booby. 

Tony. That's right, that's right ; you must be in a 
bitter passion, and then nobody will suspect either of 
us. I '11 bear witness' that they are gone. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Was there ever such a cross-grain- 
ed brute, that won't hear me ! Can you bear witness 
that you 're no better than a fool ? Was ever poor woman 
so beset with fools on one hand, and thieves on the 
other ! 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Bear witness again, you block- 
head, you, and I '11 turn you out of the room directly. 
My poor niece, what will become of her ? Do you laugh, 
you unfeeling brute, as if you enjoyed my distress ? 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Do you insult me, monster. I '11 
teach you to vex your mother, I will. 

Tony. I can bear witness to that. {He runs off. she 
follows him.) 



322 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle and Maid. 
Miss Hardcastle. "What an unaccountable creature 
is that brother of mine, to send them to the house as 
an inn ; ha ! ha ! I do n't wonder at his impudence. 

Maid. But what is more, madam, the young gentle- 
man, as you passed by in your present dress, asked me 
if you were the bar-maid. He mistook you for the 
bar-maid, madam! 

Miss Hardcastle. Did he ? Then, as I live, I 'm 
resolved to keep up the delusion. Tell me, Pimple, 
how do you like my present dress ? Do n't you think 
I look something like Cherry in the Beaux' Stratagem. 
Maid. It 's the dre ss, madam, that every lady wears 
in the country, but when she visits or receives com- 
pany. 

Miss Hardcastle. And are you sure he does rot re- 
member my face or person ? 
Maid. Certain of it. 

Miss Hardcastle. I vow I thought so ; for though 
we spoke for some time together, yet his fears were 
such that he never once looked up during the interview. 
Indeed, if he had, my bonnet would have kept him from 
seeing me. 

Maid. But what do you hope from keeping him in 
his mistake ? 

Miss Hardcastle. In the first place, I shall be seen, 
and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her 
face to market. Then I shall perhaps make an acquaint- 
ance, and that 's no small victory gained over one who 
never addresses any but the wildest of her sex. But 
my chief aim is to take my gentleman off his guard, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 323 

and like an invisible champion of romance, examine 
the giant's force before I offer to combat. 

Maid. But are you sure you can act your part, and 
disguise your voice so that he may mistake that, as he 
has already mistaken your person ? 

3Iiss Hardcastle. Never fear me. I think I have 
got the true bar cant — Did your honor call ? — Attend 
the Lion there. — Pipes and tobacco for the Angel. — 
The Lamb has been outrageous this half hour. 

Maid. It will do, madam. But he's here. 

[Exit Maid. 
Enter Marlow. 

Marlow. What a bawliug in every part of the house. 
I have scarce a moment's repose. If I go to the best 
room, there I find my host and his story ; if I fly to the 
gallery, there we have my hostess with her courtesy 
down to the ground. I have at last a moment to my- 
self, and now for recollection. [ Walks and muses. 

Miss Uardcastle. Did you call, sir ? Did your 
honor call ? 

Marlow. (Musing.) As for Miss Hardcastle, she's 
too grave and sentimental for me. 

Miss Hardcastle. Did your honor call ? 

\_She still places herself before him 
he turning away. 

Marlow. No, child. (Musing.) Besides, from the 
glimpse I had of her, I think she squints. 

Miss Hardcastle. I 'm sure, sir, I heard the bell 
ring. 

Marlow. No, No. (Musing.) I have pleased my 
father, however, by coming down, and I'll to-morrow 



324 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

please myself by returning. ( Taking out his tablets and 
perusing.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Perhaps the other gentleman 
called, sir. 

Marlow. I tell you no. 

Miss Hardcastle. I should be glad to know, sir ; we 
have such a parcel of servants. 

Marlow. No, no, I tell you. {Looks full in her face.) 
Yes, child, I think I did call. I wanted — I wanted — 
I vow, child, you are vastly handsome. 

Miss Hardcastle. O la, sir, you'll make one ashamed. 

Marlow. Never saw a more sprightly, malicious 
eye. Yes, yes, my dear, I did call. Have you got any 
of your — a — what d'ye call it, in the house? 

Miss Hardcastle. No, sir, we have been out of that 
these ten days. 

Marlow. One may call in this house, I find, to very 
little purpose. Suppose I should call for a taste, just 
by way of trial, of the nectar of your lips, perhaps I 
might be disappointed in that too. 

Miss Hardcastle. Nectar ! nectar ! That's a liquor 
there's no call for in these parts. French, I suppose. 
We keep no French wines here, sir. 

Marlow. Of true English growth, I assure you. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then it's odd I should not know 
it. We brew all sorts of wines in this house, and I 
have lived here these eighteen years. 

Marlow. Eighteen years ! Why,one would think.child, 
you kept the bar before you were born. How old are you? 

Miss Hardcastle. Oh, sir, I must not tell my age. 
They say women and music should never be dated. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 325 

Marlow. To guess at this distance, you can't be 
much above forty. (Approaching). Yet nearer, I do n't 
think so much. (Approaching J) By coming close to 
some women, they look younger still ; but when we 
come very close indeed — (Attempting to hiss her.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Pray, sir, keep your distance. 
One would think you wanted to know one's age as they 
do horses, by mark of mouth. 

Marlow. I protest, child, you use me extremely ill. 
If you keep me at this distance, how is it possible you 
and I can ever be acquainted ? 

Miss Hardcastle. And who wants to be acquainted 
with you ? I want no such acquaintance, not I. I'm 
sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here 
a while ago, in this obstopalous manner. I'll warrant 
me, before her you looked dashed, and kept bowing to 
the ground, and talked, for all the world, as if you were 
before a justice of the peace. 

Marlow. (Aside.) Egad, she has hit it, sure enough ! 
( To her.) In awe of her, child ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! A 
mere awkward, squinting thing ! No, no. I find you 
do n't know me. I laughed and rallied her a little ; 
but I was unwilling to be too severe. No, I could not 
be too severe, curse me ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Oh, then, sir, you are a favorite, 
I find, among the ladies? 

Marlow. Yes, my dear, a great favorite. And yet, 
hang me, I do n't see what they find in me to follow. 
At the ladies' club in town I'm called their agreeable 
Rattle. Rattle, child, is not my real name, but one 
I'm known by. My name is Solomons ; Mr. Solomons, 
my dear, at your service. ( Offering to salute her.) 
28 



326 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcastle. Hold, sir, you are introducing me 
to your club, not to yourself. And you 're so great a 
favorite there, you say ? 

Harlow. Yes, my dear. There 's Mrs. Mantrap, 
Lady Betty Blackleg, the Countess of Sligo, Mrs. 
Langhorns, old Miss Biddy Buckskin, and your humble 
servant, keep up the spirit of the place. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then it 's a very merry place, I 
suppose ? 

Marlow. Yes, as merry as cards, suppers, wine, and 
old women can make us. 

Miss Hardcastle. And their agreeable Rattle, ha ! 
ha! ha! 

Marlow. (Aside.) Egad ! I don't quite like this 
chit. She looks knowing, methinks. You laugh, child ? 

Miss Hardcastle. I can't but laugh to think what 
time they all have for minding their work, or their 
family. 

Marlow. (Aside.) All 's well ; she don't laugh at 
me. (To her.) Do you ever work, child? 

Miss Hardcastle. Aye, sure. There 's not a screen 
or a quilt in the whole house but what can bear witness 
to that. 

Marlow. Odso ! then you must show me your em- 
broidery. I embroider and draw patterns myself a 
little. If you want a judge of your work, you must 
apply to me. (Seizing her hand.) 

Miss Hardcastle. Ay, bat the colors do n't look 
well by candle-light. You shall see all in the morn- 
ing. (Struggling.) 

Marlow. And why not now, my angel F Such beauty 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 327 

fires beyond the power of resistance. Fohaw ! the 
father here ! My old luck ; I never nicked seven that 
I did not throw ames ace three times following.* 

\Exit Marloxo. 

Enter Hardcastle, toko stands in surprise. 

Hardcastle. So, madam. So I find this is your 
modest lover. This is your humble admirer, that kept 
his eyes fixed on the ground, and only adored at hum- 
ble distance. Kate, Kate, art thou not ashamed to 
deceive your father so ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Never trust me, dear papa, but 
he 's still the modest man I first took him for ; you '11 . 
be convinced of it as well as I. 

Hardcastle. By the hand of my body, I believe his 
impudence is infectious ! Did n't I see him seize your 
hand ? Did n't I see him hawl you about like a milk- 
maid? And now you talk of his respect and his 
modesty, forsooth ! 

Miss Hardcastle. But if I shortly convince you of 
his modesty, that he has only the faults that will pass 
off with time, and the virtues that will improve with 
age, I hope you'll forgive him. 

Hardcastle. The girl would actually make one run 
mad ! I tell you I'll not be convinced. I am convinced. 
He has scarcely been three hours in the house, and he 
has already encroached on all my prerogatives. You 

* Ames ace, or ambs ace, is two aces thrown at the same time on 
two dice. As seven is the main, to throw ames ace thrice running, 
when the player nicks, that is, hazards his money on seven, is singu- 
larly bad luck. 



328 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

may like his impudence, and call it modesty ; but my son- 
in-law, madam, must have very different qualifications. 

Miss Hardcastle. Sir, I ask but this night to con- 
vince you. 

Hardcastle. You shall not have half the time, for I 
have thoughts of turning him out this very hour. 

Miss Hardcastle. Give me that hour, then, and I 
hoj:>e to satisfy you. 

Hardcastle. Well, an hour let it be then. But I'll 
have no trifling with your father. All fair and open ; 
do you mind me ? 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, you have ever found 
that I considered your commands as my pride ; for your 
kindness is such, that my duty as yet has been inclina- 
tion. [Exeunt. 



ACT FOURTH. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Hastings. You surprise me; Sir Charles Marlow 
espected here this night ! Where have you had your 
information ? 

Miss Neville. You may depend upon it. I just saw 
his letter to Mr. Hardcastle, in which he tells him he 
intends setting out in a few hours after his son. 

Hastings. Then, my Constance, all must be com- 
pleted before he arrives. He knows me ; and should 
he find me here, would discover my name, and, per- 
haps, my designs, to the rest of the family. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 329 

Miss Neville. The jewels, I hope, are safe ? 

Hastings. Yes, yes. I have sent them to Marlow, 
who keeps the keys of our baggage. In the mean time, 
I'll go to prepare matters for our elopement. I have 
had the Squire's promise of a fresh pair of horses ; and 
if I should not see him again, will write him further 
directions. [Exit. 

Miss Neville. Well, success attend you ! In the 
mean time, I'll go amuse my aunt with the old pre- 
tence of a violent passion for my cousin. [Exit. 

Enter Marlow, followed by a Servant. 

Marlow. I wonder what Hastings could mean by 
sending me so valuable a thing as a casket to keep for 
him, when he knows the only place I have is the seat 
of a post-coach at an inn-door. Have you deposited 
the casket with the landlady, as I ordered you ? Have 
you put it into her own hands ? 

Servant. Yes, your honor. 

Marlow. She said she'd keep it safe, did she ? 

Servant. Yes ; she said she'd keep it safe enough. 
She asked me how I came by it ; and she said she had 
a great mind to make me give an account of myself. 

[Exit Servant. 

Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! They're safe, however. 
What an unaccountable set of beings have we got 
amongst ! This little bar-maid, though, runs in my 
mind most strangely, and drives out the absurdities of 
all the rest of the family. She's mine, she must be 
mine, or I'm greatly mistaken. 
28* 



330 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. Bless rue ! I quite forgot to tell her that 
I intended to prepare at the bottom of the garden. 
Marlow here, and in spirits too ! 

Marlow. Give rne joy, George ! Crown me, shadow 
me with laurels : Well, George, after all, we modest 
fellows don't want for success among the women. 

Hastings. Some women, you mean. But what suc- 
cess has your honor's modesty been crowned with now, 
that it grews so insolent upon us ? 

Marlow. Did n't you see the tempting, brisk, love- 
ly, little thing, that runs about the house with a bunch 
of keys to its girdle ? 

Hastings. Well, and what then ? 

Marlow. She's mine, you rogue, you. Such fire, 
such motion, such eyes, such lips — but, egad ! she 
would not let me kiss them though. 

Hastings. But are you so sure, so very sure of 
her? 

Marlow. Why, man, she talked of showing me her 
work above stairs, and I am to approve the pattern. 

Hastings. But how can you, Charles, go about to 
rob a woman of her honor ? 

Marlow. Pshaw ! pshaw ! We all know the honor 
of the bar-maid of an inn. I do n't intend to rob her, 
take my word for it ; there's nothing in this house I 
shan't honestly pay for. 

Hastings. I believe the girl has virtue. 

Marlow. And if she has, I should be the last man 
in the world that would attempt to corrupt it. 



SHE STOOrS TO CONQUER. 331 

Hastings. You have taken care, I hope, of the 
casket I sent you to lock up ? It's in safety ? 

Marlow. Yes, yes ; it's safe enough. I have taken 
care of it. But how could you think the seat of a 
post-coach at an inn-door a place of safety ? Ah ! 
numscull ! I have taken better precautions for you 
than you did for yourself — I have — 

Hastings. What ? 

Marlow. I have sent it to the landlady to keep for 
you. 

Hastings. . To the landlady ! 

Marloiv. The landlady. 

Marlow. You did ? 

Marlow. I did. She's to be answerable for its forth- 
coming, you know. 

Hastings. Yes, she'll bring it forth with a witness. 

Marlow. Was n't I right ? I believe you'll allow 
that I acted prudently upon this occasion. 

Hastings. (Aside.) He must not see my uneasiness. 

Marlow. You seem a little disconcerted though, 
methinks. Sure nothing has happened ? 

Hastings. No, nothing. Never was in better spirits 
in all my life. And so you left it with the landlady, 
who, no doubt, very readily undertook the charge. 

Marloiv. Rather too readily ; for she not only kept 
the casket, but, through her great precaution, was going 
to keep the messenger too. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hastings. He ! he ! he ! They're safe, however. 

Marlow. As a guinea in a miser's purse. 

Hastings. (Aside.) So now all hopes of fortune are 
at an end, and we must set off without it. (To him.) 



332 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Well, Charles, I'll leave you to your meditate :>ns> -on 
the pretty bar-maid, and, he ! he ! he ! may you he as 
successful for yourself as you have been for me ! 

[Exil 
Marlow. Thank ye, George ; I ask no more. — Ha I 
ha ! ha \ 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. I no longer kuow my own house. It's 
turned all topsy-turvy. His servants have got drunk 
already. I'll bear it no longer; and yet, from nry 
resj)ect for his father, I'll be calm. ( To him.) Mr. 
Marlow, your servant. I'm your very humble servant. 
{Bowing low.) 

Marlow. Sir, your humble, servant. {Aside.) 
What is to be the wonder now ? 

Hardcastle. I believe, sir, you must be sensible, sir, 
that no man alive ought to be more welcome than your 
father's son, sir. I hope you think so ? 

Marlow. I do from my soul, sir. I don't want much 
entreaty. I generally make my father's son welcome 
wherever he goes. 

Hardcastle. I believe you do, from my soul, sir. 
But though I say nothing to your own conduct, that of 
your servants is insufferable. Their manner of drink- 
ing is setting a very bad example in this house, I assure 
you. 

Marlow. I protest, my very good sir, that is no 
fault of mine. If they do n't drink as they ought, they 
are to blame. I ordered them not to spare the cellar. 
I did, I assure you. {To the side-scene.) Here, let one 
^f my servants come up. {To him.) My positive 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUEB. 333 

directions were, that as I did not drink myself, they 
should make up for my deficiencies below. 

Hardcastle. Then they had your orders for what 
they do ? I'm satisfied ! 

Marlow. They had, I assure you. You shall hear 
it from one of themselves. 

Enter Servant, drunk. 

Marloio. You, Jeremy ! Come forward, sirrah ! 
What were my orders ? Were you not told to drink 
freely, and call for what you thought fit, for the good 
of the house ? 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) I begin to lose my patience. 

Jeremy. Please your honor, liberty and Fleet-street 
forever ! Though I'm but a servant, I'm as good as 
another man. I'll drink for no man before supper, 
sir, damme ! Good liquor will sit upon a good supper, 

but a good supper will not sit upon hiccup ■ 

my conscience, sir. \_Exit. 

Marloio. You see my old friend, the fellow is as 
drunk as he can possibly be. I do n't know what you'd 
have more, unless you'd have the poor devil soused in 
a beer barrel. 

Hardcastle. Zounds, he'll drive me distracted, if I 
contain myself any longer ! Mr. Marlow ; sir, I have 
submitted to your insolence for more than four hours, 
and I see no likelihood of its coming to an end. I'm 
now resolved to be master here, sir, and I desire that 
you and your drunken pack may leave my house directly. 

Marlow. Leave your house ! — Sure, you jest, my 
good friend ? What ! when I am doing what I can to 
please you. 



334 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, you do n't please ; so I 
desire you will leave my house. 

Marlow. Sure you cannot be serious ? at this time 
of night, and such a night ? You only mean to banter 
me. 

Hardcastle. I tell you, sir, I'm serious ! and now 
that my passions are roused, I say this house is mine, 
and I command you to leave it directly. 

Marlow. Ha ! ha ! ha ! A puddle in a storm. I 
shan't stir a step, I assure you. {In a serious tone.) This 
your house, fellow ! It's my house. This is my house. 
Mine while I choose to stay. What right have you to 
bid me leave this house, sir ? I never met with such 
impudence, curse me ; never in my whole life before. 

Hardcastle. Nor I, confound me if ever I did ! To 
come to my house, to call for what he likes, to turn me 
out of my own chair, to iusult the family, to order his 
servants to get drunk, and then to tell me, " This house 
is mine, sir ! " By all that's impudent, it makes me 
laugh. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Pray, sir, (bantering) as you 
take the house, what think you of taking the rest of the 
furniture ? There's a pair of silver candle-sticks, and 
there's a fire-screen, and here's a pair of brazen-nosed 
bellows ; perhaps you may take a fancy to them ? 

Marlow. Bring me your bill, sir ; bring me your bill, 
and let's make no more words about it. 

Hardcastle. There are a set of prints, too. What 
think you of the Rake's Progress for your own apart- 
ment? 

Marlow. Bring me your bill, I say, and I'll leave 
you and your infernal house directly. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 335 

Hardcastle. Then there's a mahogany table that 
yon may see your face in. 

Marlow. My bill, I say. 

Hardcastle. I had forgot the great chair for your 
own particular slumbers, after a hearty meal. 

Marlow. Zounds ! bring me my bill, I say, and let's 
hear no more on't. 

Hardcastle. Young man, young man, from your 
father's letter to me, I was taught to expect a well- 
bred, modest man as a visitor here, but now I find him 
no better than a coxcomb and a bully ! but he will be 
down here presently, and shall hear more of it. \_Exit. 

Marlow. How's this ! Sure I have not mistaken 
the house. Everything looks like an inn ; the servants 
cry coming ; the attendance is awkward ; the bar-maid, 
too, to attend us. But she's here, and will further in- 
form me. Whither so fast, child ? A word with you. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Miss Hardcastle. Let it be short, then. I'm in a 
hurry. (Aside.) I believe he begins to find out his 
mistake. But it's too soon quite to undeceive him. 

Marlow. Pray, child, answer me one question. 
What are you, and what may your business in this 
house be ? 

Miss Hardcastle. A relation of the family, sir. 

Marlow. What, a poor relation ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, a poor relation, appointed 
to keep the key s, and to see that the guests want nothing 
in my power to give them. 

Marlow. That is, you act as the bar-maid of this inn. 



336 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Miss Hardcasile. Inn ! la what brought that 

into your head ? One of the best families in the county 
keep an inn ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! old Mr. Hardcastle's 
house an inn ! 

Marlow. Mr. Hardcastle's house ! Is this Mr. Hard- 
castle's house, child ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Ay, sure. Whose else should it be ? 

Marlow. So, then, all's out, and I have been dam- 
nably imposed upon. Oh, confound my stupid head, I 
shall be laughed at over the whole town ! I shall be 
stuck up in caricature in all the print-shops. The 
Dullissimo-Maccaroni. To mistake this house of all 
others for an inn, and my father's old friend for an inn- 
keeper ! What a swaggering puppy must he take me 
for ! What a silly puppy do I find myself ! There, 
again, may I be hanged, my dear, but I mistook you 
for the bar-maid. 

Miss Hardcastle. Dear me ! dear me ! I'm sure 
there's nothing in my behavior to put me upon a level 
with one of that stamp. 

Marlow. Nothing, my dear, nothing. But I was in 
for a list of blunders, and could not help making you a 
subscriber. My stupidity saw everything the wrong 
way. I mistook your assiduity for assurance, and your 
simplicity for allurement. But it's over — this house 
I no more show my face in. 

Miss Hardcastle. I hope, sir, I have done nothing 
to disoblige you. I'm sure I should be sorry to affront 
any gentleman who has been so polite, and said so many 
civil things to me. I'm sure I should be sorry {pre- 
tending to cry) if he left the family on my account. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 337 

I'm sure I should be sorry people said anything amiss, 
since I have no fortune but my character. 

Marloiv. (Aside.) By Heaven ! she weeps. This 
is the first mark of tenderness I ever had from a modest 
woman, and it touches me. (To her.) Excuse me, 
my lovely girl ; you are the only part of the family I 
leave with reluctance. But, to be plain with you, the 
difference of our birth, fortune, and education, make an 
honorable connection impossible ; and I can never 
harbor a thought of seducing simplicity that trusted in 
my honor, of bringing ruin upon one whose only fault 
was being too lovely. 

3£iss Hardcastle. (Aside.) Generous man ! I now 
begin to admire him. (To him.) But I am sure my 
family is as good as Miss Hardcastle's ; and though I'm 
poor, that's no great misfortune to a contented mind; 
and until this moment, I never thought that it was bad 
to want fortune. 

Marlow. And why now, my pretty simplicity ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Because it puts me at a distance 
from one, that if I had a thousand pounds, I would give 
it all to. 

Marlow. (Aside.) This simplicity bewitches me so, 
that if I stay, I'm undone. I must make one bold 
effort and leave her. (To her.) Your partiality in my 
favor, my dear, touches me most sensibly ; and were I 
to live for myself alone, I could easily fix my choice. 
But I owe too much to the opinion of the world, too 
much to the authority of a father ; so that — I can 
speak it — it affects me. — Farewell. \_Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. I never knew half his merit till 
29 



338 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

now. He shall not go if I have power or art to detain 
him. I'll still preserve the character in which I stooped 
to conquer, but will undeceive my papa, who, perhaps, 
may laugh him out of his resolution. [Exit. 

Enter Tony and Miss Neville. 

Tony. Ay, you may steal for yourselves the next, 
time. I have done my duty. She has got the jewels 
again, that's a sure thing ; but she believes it was all a 
mistake of the servants. 

Miss Neville. But, my dear cousin, sure you won't 
forsake us in this distress ? If she in the least suspects 
that I am going off, I shall certainly be locked up, or 
sent to my aunt Pedigree's, which is ten times worse. 

Tony. To be sure, aunts of all kinds are damned 
bad things. But what can I do ? I have got you a 
pair of horses that will fly like Whistle Jacket ; and 
I'm sure you can't say but I have courted you nicely 
before her face. Here she comes ; we must court a bit 
or two more, for fear she should suspect us. 

[ They retire and seem to fondle 

Enter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. "Well, I was greatly fluttered, to 
be sure, but my son tells me it was all a mistake of th^ 
servants. I shan't be easy, however, till they are 
fairly married, and then let her keep her own fortune. 
But what do I see ? fondling together, as I'm alive. I 
never saw Tony so sprightly before. Ah ! have T 
caught you, my pretty doves ? What, billing, exchang- 
ing glances, and broken murmurs ? Ah ! 

Tony. As for murmurs, mother, we grumble a little 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 33£ 

now and then, to be sure ; but there's no love lost be- 
tween us. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. A mere sprinkling, Tony, upon 
the flame, only to make it burn brighter. 

Miss Neville. Cousin Tony promises us to give us 
more of his company at home. Indeed, he shan't leave 
us any more. It won't leave us, cousin Tony, will it ? 

Tony. Oh, it's a pretty creature. No, I'd sooner 
leave my horse in a pound, than leave you when you 
smile upon one so. Your laugh makes you so becom- 
ing. 

3fiss Neville. Agreeable cousin ! Who can help ad- 
miring that natural humor, that pleasant, broad, red, 
thoughtless (patting his cheek). — ah! it's a bold face! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pretty innocence. 

Tony. I'm sure I always loved cousin Con's hazel 
eyes, and her pretty long fingers, that she twists this 
way and that over haspicholls, like a parcel of bobbins. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ah ! he would charm the bird from 

the tree. I was never so happy before. My boy takes 

after his father, poor Mr. Lumpkin, exactly. The 

jewels, my dear Con, shall be yours incontinently. 

You shall have them. Isn't he a sweet boy, my dear. 

You shall be married to-morrow, and we'll put off the 

rest of his education, like Dr. Drowsy's sermons, to a 

fitter opportunity. 

Enter Diggory. 

Diggory. "Where's the Squire ? I have got a letter 
for your worship. 

Tony. Give it to my mamma. She reads all my 
letters first. 



340 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Diggory. I had orders to deliver it into your own 
hands. 

Tony. Who does it come from ? 

Diggory, Your worship mun ask that o' the letter 
itself. 

Tony. I could wish to know though. ( Turning the 
letter, and gazing on it.) 

Miss Neville. (Aaide.) Undone ! undone ! A letter 
to him from Hastings : I know the hand. If my aunt 
sees it, we are ruined forever. I '11 keep her employed 
a little, if I can. (To Mrs. Hardcastle) But I have 
not told you, madam, of my cousin's smart answer just 
now to Mr. Marlow. We so laughed — you must know, 
madam — This way a little, for he must not hear us. 
(They confer.) 

Tony. (Still gazing.) A damned cramp piece of pen- 
manship as ever I saw in my life. I can read your 
print-hand very well ; but here there are such handles, 
and shanks, and dashes that one can scarce tell the head 
from the tail. " To Anthony Lumpkin, Esquire." It's 
very odd, I can read the outside of my letters, where 
my own name is, well enough. But when I come to 
open it, it 's all — buzz. That 's hard — very hard ; for 
the inside of the letter is always the cream of the cor- 
respondence. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Very well, very welL 
And so my son was too hard for the philosopher ? 

Miss Neville. Yes, madam ; but you must hear the 
rest, madam. A little more this way, or he may hear 
us. You '11 hear how he puzzled him again. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. He seems strangely puzzled now 
himself, methinks. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 341 

Tony. (Still gazing) A damned up-and-down hand, 
as if it was disguised in liquor. (Reading) " Dear 
Sir," — Ay, that 's that. Then there 's an M, and a T, 
and an S, but whether the next be an izzard or an R, 
confound me I cannot tell. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. What 's that, my dear ; can I give 
you any assistance ? 

Miss Neville. Pray, aunt, let me read it. Nobody 
reads a cramp hand better than I. ( Twitching the letter 
from him.) Do you know who it is from ? 

Tony. Can't tell, except from Dick Ginger, the 
feeder. 

Miss Neville. Ay, so it is; (pretending to read) Dear 
Squire, hoping that you 're in health, as I am at this 
present. The gentlemen of the Shake Bag Club has cut 
the gentlemen of the Goose Green quite out of feather. 
The oclcls — um — odd battle — um — long — fighting — 
um — here, here, it 's all about cocks and fighting ; it 's 
of no consequence — here, put it up, put it up. ( Thrust- 
ing the crumpled letter upon him.) 

Tony. But I tell you, miss, it 's of all the conse- 
quence in the world. I would not lose the rest of it 
for a guinea. Here, mother, do you make it out. Of 
no consequence ! [ Giving Mrs. Hardcastle the letter. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. How's this? (Reads) "Dear Squire, 
I 'm now waiting for Miss Neville, with a postchaise and 
pair, at the bottom of the garden, but I find my horses 
yet unable to perform the journey. I expect you '11 
assist us with a pair of fresh horses, as you promised. 
Despatch is necessary, as the hag" — ay, the hag — 
"your mother, will otherwise suspect us. Yours, 
29* 



342 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings." Grant me patience. I shall run distracted ! 
My rage chokes me ! 

Miss Neville. I hope, madam, you '11 suspend your 
resentment for a few moments, and not impute to me 
any impertinence, or sinister design, that belongs to 
another. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. ( Courtesying very low) Fine spoken 
madam, you are most miraculously polite and engaging, 
and quite the very pink of courtesy and circumspection, 
madam. ( Changing her tone) And you, you great ill- 
fashioned oaf, with scarce sense enough to keep your 
mouth shut, — were you too joined against me ? But I'll 
defeat all your plots in a moment. As for you, madam, 
since you have got a pair of fresh horses ready, it would 
"be cruel to disappoint them. So, if you please, instead 
of running away with your spark, prepare this very 
moment to run off with me. Your old aunt Pedigree 
will keep you secure, I '11 warrant me. You too, sir, 
may mount your horse, and guard us upon the way. — 
Here, Thomas, Roger, Diggory ! — I '11 show you that I 
wish you better than you do yourselves. [Exit. 

Miss Neville. So, now I 'm completely ruined. 

Tony. Ay, that 's a sure thing. 

Miss Neville. What better could be expected from 
being connected with such a stupid fool, and after all 
the nods and signs I made him. 

Tony. By the laws, miss, it was your own clever- 
ness, and not my stupidity, that did your business ! 
You were so nice and so busy with your Shake Bags 
and Goose Greens that I thought you could never be 
making believe. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 343 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. So, sir, I find by my servant that you 
have shown my letter, and betrayed vis. Was this 
well done, young gentleman ? 

Tony. Here 's another. Ask miss, there, who be- 
trayed you. Ecod ! it was her doing, not mine. 

Enter Marloio. 

Marlow. So, I have been finely used here among 
you. Rendered contemptible, driven into ill-manners, 
despised, insulted, laughed at. 

Tony. Here 's another. We shall have all Bedlam 
broke loose presently. 

Miss Neville. And there, sir, is the gentleman to 
whom we all owe every obligation. 

Marlow. What can I say to him ? — a mere boy, 
* — an idiot, — whose ignorance and age are a protec- 
tion. 

Hastings. A poor, contemptible booby, that would 
but disgrace correction. 

Miss Neville. Yet with cunning and malice enough 
to make himself merry with all our embarrassments. 

Hastings. An insensible cub. 

Marlow. Replete with tricks and mischief. 

Tony. Baw ! damme, but I '11 fight you both, one 
aiter the other — with baskets. 

Marloio. As for him, he 's below resentment. But 
your conduct, Mr. Hastings, requires an explanation. 
You knew of my mistakes, yet would not undeceive 
me. 



344 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Hastings. Tortured as 1 am with my own disappoint- 
ments, is this a time for explanations ? It is not friendly, 
Mr. Marlow. 

Marlow. But, sir 

Miss Neville. Mr. Marlow, we never kept on your 
mistake, till it was too late to undeceive you. Be 
pacified. 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. My mistress desires you '11 get ready imme- 
diately, madam. The horses are putting-to. Your hat 
and things are in the next room. ; We are to go thirty 
miles before morning. 

[Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. "Well, well, I '11 come presently. 

Marlow. (To Hastings.} Was it well done, sir, to 
assist in rendering me ridiculous 1 — To hang me out for 
the scorn of all my acquaintance ? Depend upon it, sir, 
I shall expect an explanation. 

Hastings. Was it well done, sir, if you 're upon that 
subject, to deliver what I entrusted to yourself, to the 
care of another, sir ! 

Miss Neville. Mr. Hastings ! Mr. Marlow ! Why will 
you increase my distress by this groundless dispute ? I 
implore — I entreat you 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Your cloak, madam. My mistress is impa- 
tient. [Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. I come. Pray, be pacified. If 1 
leave you thus, I shall die with apprehension. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 345 

Enter Servant. 

Servant. Your fan, muff, and gloves, madam. The 
horses are waiting. \_Exit Servant. 

Miss Neville. Oh, Mr. Marlow, if you knew what a 
scene of constraint and ill-nature lies before me, I am 
sure it would convert your resentment into pity. 

Marlow. I 'in so distracted with a variety of passions 
that I do n't know what I do. Forgive me, madam. 
George, forgive me. You know my hasty temper, and 
should not exasperate it. 

Hastings. The torture of my situation is my only 
excuse. 

Miss Neville. Well, my dear Hastings, if you have 
that esteem for me that I think, — that I am sure you 
have, your constancy for three years will but increase the 
happiness of our future connection. If 

Mrs. Hardcastle. {Within.) Miss Neville! Con- 
stance, why, Constance, I say. 

Miss Neville. I 'm coming ! Well, constancy, remem- 
ber, constancy is the word. {Exit. 

Hastings. My heart ! how can I support this ? To 
be so near happiness, and such happiness ! 

Marlow. {To Tony.) You see now, young gentle- 
man, the effects of your folly. What might be amuse- 
ment to you, is here disappointment, and even distress. 

Tony. {From a reverie.) Ecod, I have hit it : it 's 
here ! Your haads. Yours, and yours, my poor Sulky. 
My boots there, no ! — Meet me, two hours hence, at the 
bottom of the garden; and if you don't find Tony Lump- 
kin a more good-natured fellow than you thought for, I '11 



346 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

give you leave to take my best horse, and Bet Bouncer 
into the bargain. Come along. My boots, ho ! 

\_ExeunL 



ACT FIFTH. 

Enter Hastings and Servant. 

Hastings. You saw the old lady and Miss Neville 
drive off, you say ? 

Servant. Yes, your honor. They went off in a 
post-coach, and the young Squire went on horseback. 
They 're thirty miles off by this time. 

Hastings. Then all my hopes are over ! 

Servant. Yes, sir. Old Sir Charles is arrived. He 
and the old gentleman of the house have been laughing 
at Mr. Marlow's mistake this half hour. They are 
coming this way. ., \_Exit. 

Hastings. Then I must not be seen. So now to 
my fruitless appointment at the bottom of the garden. 
This is about the time. [Exit 

Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Ha ! ha ! ha ! The peremptory tone 
in which he sent forth his sublime commands ! 

Sir Charles. And the reserve with which I suppose 
he treated all your advances. 

Hardcastle. And yet he might have seen something 
in me above a common innkeeper, too. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 347 

Sir Charles. Yes, Dick, but he mistook you for an un- 
common innkeeper ; ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Hardcastle. Well, I 'm in too good spirits to think of 
anything but joy. Yes, my dear friend, this union of our 
families will make our personal friendships hereditary, 
and though my daughter's fortune is but small 

Sir Charles. Why, Dick, will you talk of fortune to 
me ? My son is possessed of more than a competence al- 
ready, and can want nothing but a good and virtuous girl 
to share his happiness and increase it. If they like each 
other, as you say they do 

Hardcastle. If, man ! I tell you they do like each oth- 
er My daughter as good as told me so. 

Sir Charles. But girls are apt to flatter themselves, 
you know. 

Hardcastle. I saw him grasp her hand in the warmest 
manner, myself; and here he comes to put you out of 
your ifs, I warrant him. 

Enter Marlow. 

Marlovj. I come, sir, once more, to ask pardon for my 
strange conduct. I can scarce reflect on my insolence 
without confusion. 

Hardcastle. Tut, boy, a trifle. You take it too grave- 
ly An hour or two's laughing with my daughter, will 
set all to rights again. She '11 never like you the worse 
for it. 

Marlow. Sir, I shall be always proud of her approbation. 

Hardcastle. Approbation is but a cold word, Mr. Mar- 
low , if I am not deceived, you have something more than 
approbation thereabouts. You take me ! 



348 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Marlow. Really, sir, I have not that happiness. 

Hardcastle. Come, boy, I 'm an old fellow, and 
know what 's what as well as you that are younger. I 
know what has past between you ; but mum. 

Marlow. Sure, sir, nothing has past between us but 
the most profound respect on my side, and the most 
distant reserve on hers. You don't think, sir, that my 
impudence has been past upon all the rest of the family. 

Hardcastle. Impudence ! No, I don't say that — 
not quite impudence — though girls like to be plaved 
with, and rumpled a little, too, sometimes. But she 
has told no tales, I assure you. 

Marlow. I never gave her the slightest cause. 

Hardcastle. Well, well, I like modesty in its place 
well enough ; but this is over-acting, young gentleman. 
You may be open. Your father and I will like you 
the better for it. 

Marlow. May I die, sir, if I ever 

Hardcastle. I tell you she don't dislike you ; and 
as I am sure you like her 

Marlow. Dear sir, I protest, sir 



Hardcastle. I see no reason why you should not be 
joined as fast as the parson can tie you. 

Marlow. But hear me, sir 

Hardcastle. Your father approves the match, I ad- 
mire it ; every moment's delay will be doing mischief, 
so 

Marlow. But why don't you hear me ? By all that's 
just and true, I never gave Miss Hardcastle the slight- 
est mark of my attachment, or even the most distant 
hint to suspect me of affection. We had but one inter- 
view, and that was formal, modest, and uninteresting. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 349 

Hardcastle. (Aside.) This fellow's formal, modest 
impudence is beyond bearing. 

Sir Charles. And you never grasped her hand, or 
made any protestations ? 

Marlow. As Heaven is my witness, I came down 
in obedience to your commands ; I saw the lady with- 
out emotion, and parted without reluctance. I hope 
you '11 exact no further proofs of my duty, nor prevent 
me from leaving a house in which I suffer so many 
mortifications. \_Exit. 

Sir Charles. I 'm astonished at the air of sincerity 
with which he parted. 

Hardcastle. And I 'm astonished at the deliberate 
intrepidity of his assurance. 

Sir Charles. I dare pledge my life and honor upon 
his truth. 

Hardcastle. Here comes my daughter, and I would 
stake my happiness upon her veracity. 

Enter Miss Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. Kate, come hither, child. Answer us 
sincerely, and without reserve : has Mr. Marlow made 
you any professions of love and affection ? 

Miss Hardcastle. The question is very abrupt, sir. 
But since you require udreserved sincerity — I think 
he has. 

Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 

Sir Charles. And, pray, madam, have you and my 
son had more than one interview ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, several. 
' Hardcastle. (To Sir Charles) You see. 
30 



350 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Sir Charles. But did he profess any attachment ? 

Miss Hardcastle. A lasting one. 

Sir Charles. Did he talk of love ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Much, sir. 

Sir Charles. Amazing ! And all this formally ? 

Miss Hardcastle. Formally. 

Hardcastle. Now, my friend, I hope you are satisfied. 

Sir Charles. And how did he behave, madam ? 

Miss Hardcastle. As most professed admirers do ; 
said some civil things of my face ; talked much of his 
want of merit, and the greatness of mine ; mentioned 
his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with 
pretended rapture. 

Sir Charles. Now I'm perfectly convinced, indeed. 
I know his conversation among women to be modest 
and submissive. This forward, canting, ranting man- 
ner by no means describes him, and, I am confident, 
he never sat for the picture. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then what, sir, if I should con- 
vince you to your face of my sincerity? If you and 
my papa, in about half an hour, will place yourselves 
behind that screen, you shall hear him declare his pas- 
sion to me in person. 

Sir Charles. Agreed. And if I find him what you 
describe, all my happiness in him must have an end. 

{Exit. 

Miss Hardcastle. And if you don't find him what I 
describe, I fear my happiness must never have a be- 
ginning. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 351 

SCENE CHANGES TO THE BACK OF THE GARDEN. 

Enter Hastings. 

Hastings. What an idiot am I to wait here for a 
fellow who probably takes a delight in mortifying me. 
He never intended to be punctual, and I'll wait no 
longer. What do I see ? It is he ! and perhaps with 
news of my Constance. 

Enter Tony, booted and spattered. 

Hastings. My honest Squire ! I now find you a 
man of your word. This looks like friendship. 

Tony. Ay, I'm your friend, and the best friend you 
have in the world, if you knew but all. This riding by 
night, by the by, is cursedly tiresome. It has shook 
me worse than the basket of a stage-coach. 

Hastings. But how ? where did you leave your fel- 
low-travellers ? Are they in safety ? Are they housed ? 

Tony. Five-and-twenty miles in two hours and a 
half is no such bad driving. The poor beasts have 
smoked for it : rabbit me ! but I'd rather ride forty 
miles after a fox, than ten with such varmint. 

Hastings. Well, but where have you left the ladies ? 
I die with impatience. 

Tony. Left them ! Why, where should I leave 
them bat where I found them ? 

Hastings. This is a riddle. 

Tony. Riddle me this, then. What's that goes 
round the house, and round the house, and nevei 
touches the house ? 

Hastings. I'm still astray. 



352 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. Why, that's it, mun. I have led them astray. 
By jingo, there's not a pond nor a slough within five 
miles of the place but they can tell the taste of. 

Hastings. Ha ! ha ! ha ! I understand : you took 
them in a round while they supposed themselves going- 
forward, and so you have at last brought them home 
again. 

Tony. You shall hear. I first took them down 
Feather-bed Lane, where we stuck fast in the mud. I 
then rattled them crack over the stones of Up-and- 
down Hill. I then introduced them to the gibbet on 
Heavy-tree Heath ; and from that, with a circumbendi- 
bus, I fairly lodged them in the horse-pond at the bot- 
tom of the garden. 

Hastings. But no accident, I hope ? 

Tony. No, no ; only mother is confoundedly frightr 
ened. She thinks herself forty miles off. She's sick of 
the journey ; and the cattle can scarce crawl. So, if 
your own horses be ready, you may whip off with 
cousin, and I'll be bound that no soul here can budge 
a foot to follow you. 

Hastings. My dear friend, how can I be grateful ? 

Tony. Ay, now it's dear friend? noble Squire! 
Just now, it was all idiot, cub, and run me through the 
guts. Damn your way of fighting, I say. After we take 
a knock in this part of the country, we kiss and be 
friends. But if you had run me through the guts, then 
I should be dead, and you might go kiss the hangman. 

Hastings. The rebuke is just. But I must hasten to 
relieve Miss Neville : if you keep the old lady employed, 
I promise to take care of the young one. 

\Exit Hastings. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 353 

Tony. Never fear me. Here she comes ; vanish. 
She 's got from the pond, and draggled up to the waist 
like a mermaid. 

Mnter Mrs. Hardcastle. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, Tony, I'm killed. Shook! 
Battered to death ! I shall never survive it. That 
last jolt, that laid us against the quickset-hedge, has 
done my business. 

Tony. Alack, mamma ! it was all your own fault. 
You would be for running away by night, without 
knowing one inch of the way. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. I 
never met so many accidents in so short a journey. 
Drenched in the mud, overturned in a ditch, stuck fast 
in a slough, jolted to a jelly, and at last to lose our way ! 
Whereabouts do you think we are, Tony ? 

Tony. By my guess, we should be upon Crack- 
skull Common, about forty miles from home. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. lud ! lud ! The most noto- 
rious spot in all the country. We only want a rob- 
bery to make a complete night on't. 

Tony. Don't be afraid, mamma ; don't be afraid. 
Two of the five that kept here are hanged, and the 
other three may not find us. Don't be afraid. — Is 
that a man that's galloping behind us. No, it's only 
a tree. — Don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. The fright will certainly kill me. 

Tony. Do you see anything like a black hat mov- 
ing behind the thicket ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Oh, death ! 
30* 



354 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Tony. No ; it 's only a cow. Don't be afraid, mam- 
ma, don't be afraid. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. As I 'm alive, Tony, I see a man 
coming towards us. Ah, I am sure on 't. If he per- 
ceives us, we are undone. 

Tony. (Aside.) Father-in-law, by all that's unlucky 
come to take one of his night walks. ( To her) Ah, it's 
a highwayman, with pistols as long as my arm. A 
damned ill-looking fellow ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Good Heaven, defend us ! He 
approaches. 

Tony. Do you hide yourself in that thicket, and 
leave me to manage him. If there be any danger, I'll 
cough, and cry hem. When I cough, be sure to keep 
close. \_Mrs. Hardcastle hides behind a tree in the back 
scene. 

Enter Hardcastle. 

Hardcastle. I 'm mistaken, or I heard voices of peo- 
ple in want of help. Oh, Tony, is that you ? I did 
not expect you so soon back. Are your mother and 
her charge in safety ? 

Tony. Very safe, sir, at my aunt Pedigree's. Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. {From behind) Ah, death ! I find 
there 's danger. 

Hardcastle. Forty miles in three hours ; sure that's 
too much, my youngster. 

Tony. Stout horses and willing minds make short 
journeys, as they say. Hem. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (From behind) Sure, he '11 do *fc# 
dear boy no harm. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 355 

Hardcastle. But I heard a voice here ; I should be 
glad to know from whence it came. 

Tony. It was I, sir, talking to myself, sir. I was 
saying that forty miles in four hours was very good 
going. Hem. As to be sure it was. Hem. I have 
got a sort of cold by being out in the air. We'll go 
in, if you please. Hem. 

Hardcastle. But if you talked to yourself, you did not 
answer yourself. I 'm certain I heard two voices, and 
am resolved (raising his voice) to find the other out. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. {From behind.) Oh ! he 's coming 
to find me out. Oh ! 

Tony. What need you go, sir, if I tell you ? Hem. 
I '11 lay down my life for the truth — hem — I '11 tell you 
all, sir. \_Detaining him. 

Hardcastle. I tell you I will not he detained. I in- 
sist on seeing. It 's in vain to expect I '11 believe you. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Running forward from behind.) 
O lucl ! he'll murder my poor boy, my darling ! Here, 
good gentleman, whet your rage upon me. Take my 
money, my life, but spare that young gentleman ; spare 
my child if you have any mercy. 

Hardcastle. My wife, as I 'm a Christian. From 
whence can she have come ? or what does she mean ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Kneeling.) Take compassion on 
us, good Mr. Highwayman. Take our money, our 
watches, all we have, but spare our lives. We will 
never bring you to justice ; indeed we won't, good Mr. 
Highwayman. 

Hardcastle. I believe the woman 's out of her senses. 
What, Dorothy, don't you know me ? 



356 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Mrs. Uardcastle. Mr. Uardcastle, as I'm alive! 
My fears blinded me. But who, my dear, could have 
expected to meet you here, in this frightful place, so far 
from home ? What has brought you to follow us ? 

Uardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, you have not lost your 
wits ? So far from home, when you are within forty 
yards of your own door ! ( To him.) This is one of 
your old tricks, you graceless rogue, you. (To her.) 
Don't you know the gate and the mulberry tree ? and 
don't you remember the horse-pond, my dear ? 

Mrs. Uardcastle. Yes, I shall remember the horse- 
pond as long as I live ; I have caught my death in it. 
( To Tony.) And is it to you, you graceless varlet, I owe 
all this ? I'll teach you to abuse your mother — I will. 

Tony. Ecod, mother, all the parish says you have 
spoiled me, and so you may take the fruits on't. 

Mrs. Uardcastle. I '11 spoil you, I will. 

\_Folloivs him off the stage. 

Uardcastle. There 's morality, however, in his reply. 

{Exit. 
Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Hastings. My clear Constance, why will you delibe- 
rate thus ? If we delay a moment, all is lost forever. 
Pluck up a little resolution, and we shall soon be out 
of the reach of her malignity. 

Miss Neville. I find it impossible. My spirits are so 
sunk with the agitations I have suffered, that I am 
unable to face any new danger. Two or three years' 
patience will at last crown us with happiness. 

Hastings. Such a tedious delay is worse than incon- 
stancy. Let us fly, my charmer ! Let us date our 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 357 

happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune,. 
Love and content will increase what we possess beyond 
a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail ! 

Miss Neville. No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once 
more comes to my relief, and I will obey its dictates. 
In the moment of passion, fortune may be despised, but 
it ever produces a lasting repentance. I'm resolved to 
apply to Mr. Hardcastle's compassion and justice for 
redress. 

Hastings. But though he had the will, he has not 
the power, to relieve you. 

Miss Neville. But he has influence, and upon that 
I am resolved to rely. 

Hastings. I have no hopes. But, since you persist, 
I must reluctantly obey you. \_Exeunt. 

SCENE CHANGES. 

Enter Sir Charles Marlow and Miss JHardcastle. 

Sir Charles. What a situation am I in ! If what 
you say appears, I shall then find a guilty son. If 
what he says be true, I shall then lose one that, of all 
others, I most wished for a daughter. 

Miss Hardcastle. I am proud of your approbation ; 
and to show I merit it, if you place yourselves as I 
directed, you shall hear his explicit declaration. But 
he comes. 

Sir Charles. I'll to your father, and keep him to 
the appointment. \_Exit Sir Charles. 

Enter Marlow. 
Marlow. Though prepared for setting out, I come once 



358 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

more to take leave : nor did I, till this moment, know 
the pain I feel in the separation. 

Miss Hardcastle. (In her own natural manner) I 
believe these sufferings cannot be very great, sir, which 
you can so easily remove. A day or two longer, per- 
haps, might lessen your uneasiness, by showing the 
little value of what you now think proper to regret. 

Marlow. (Aside) This girl every moment improves 
upon me. ( To her) It must not be, madam ; I have 
already trifled too long with my heart. My very pride 
begins to submit to my passion. The disparity of 
education and fortune, the anger of a parent, and the 
contempt of my equals, begin to lose their weight ; and 
nothing can restore me to myself but this painful effort 
of resolution. 

Miss Hardcastle. Then go, sir ; I '11 urge nothing 
more to detain you. Though my family be as good as 
hers you came down to visit, and my education, I hope, 
not inferior, what are these advantages without equal 
affluence? I must remain contented with the slight 
approbation of imputed merit ; I must have only the 
mockery of your addresses, while all your serious aims 
are fixed on fortune. 

Enter Hardcastle and Sir Charles Marlow, from behind, 
Sir Charles. Here, behind this screen. 
Hardcastle. Ay, ay ; make no noise. I '11 engage 
my Kate covers him with confusion at last. 

Marlow. By Heaven ! madam, fortune was ever 
my smallest consideration. Your beauty at first caught 
my eye ; for who could see that without emotion ? 
But every moment that I converse with you, steals in 
some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 359 

stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plain- 
ness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed 
forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of 
courageous innocence and conscious virtue. 

Sir Charles. What can it mean ? He amazes me ! 

Hardcasile. I told you how it would be. Hush ! 

Marlow. I am now determined to stay, madam, and 
I have too good an opinion of my father's discernment, 
when he sees you, to doubt his approbation. 

Miss Hardcasile. No, Mr. Marlow, I will not, can- 
not detain you. Do you think I could suffer a connec- 
tion in which there is the smallest room for repent- 
ance ? Do you think I would take the mean advantage 
of a transient passion to load you with confusion ? Do 
you think I could ever relish that happiness which was 
acquired by lessening yours ? 

Marlow. By all that's good, I can have no happi- 
ness but what's in your power to grant me ! Nor shall 
I ever feel repentance but in not having seen your 
merits before. I will stay even contrary to your 
wishes ; and though you should persist to shun me, I 
will make my respectful assiduties atone for the levity 
of my past conduct. 

Miss Hardcasile. Sir, I must entreat you'll desist. 
As our acquaintance began, so let it end, in indiffer- 
ence. I might have given an hour or two to levity ; 
but seriously, Mr. Marlow, do you think I could ever 
submit to a connection where I must appear mercenary, 
and you imprudent ? Do you think I could ever catch 
at the confident addresses of a secure admirer. 

Marlow. {Kneeling) Does this look like security ! 



360 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

Does this look like confidence ? No, madam, every 
moment that shows me your merit, only serves to in- 
crease my diffidence and confusion. Here let me con- 
tinue 

Sir Charles. I can hold it no longer. Charles, 
Charles, how hast thou deceived me ! Is this your in- 
difference, your uninteresting conversation ? 

Hardcastle. Your cold contempt : your formal inter- 
view ! What have you to say now ? 

Marlow. That I'm all amazement ! What can it 



mean 



Hardcastle. It means that you can say and unsay 
things at pleasure ; that you can address a lady in 
private, and deny it in public ; that you have one story 
for us, and another for my daughter. 

Marlow. Daughter ! — This lady your daughter ? 

Hardcastle. Yes, sir, my only daughter — my Kate ; 
-whose else should she be ? 

Marlow. Oh, the devil ! 

Miss Hardcastle. Yes, sir, that very identical tall, 
squinting lady you were pleased to take me for (courtesy- 
ing); she that you addressed as the mild, modest, senti- 
mental man of gravity, and the bold, forward, agree- 
able Rattle of the ladies' club. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Marlow. Zounds, there 's no bearing this ; it's worse 
than death ! 

Miss Hardcastle. In which of your characters, sir, 
will you give us leave to address you ? As the falter- 
ing gentleman, which looks on the ground, that speaks, 
just to be heard, and hates hypocrisy ; or the loud, 
confident creature, that keeps it up with Mrs. Mantrap, 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 361 

and old Miss Biddy Buckskin, till three in the morn- 
ing ! — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Marlow. Oh, curse on my noisy head ! I never 
attempted to be impudent yet that I was not taken 
down. I must be gone. 

Hardcasile. By the hand of my body, but you shall 
not. I see it was all a mistake, and I am rejoiced to 
find it. You shall not stir, I tell you. I know she'll 
forgive you. Won't you forgive him, Kate? We'll 
all forgive you. Take courage, man. 

[ They retire, she tormenting him to the bach scene. 

Enter Mrs. Hardcasile and Tony. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. So, so, they 're gone off. Let 
them go, I care not. 

Hardcastle. Who gone ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My dutiful niece and her gentle- 
man, Mr. Hastings, from town. He who came down 
with our modest visitor here. 

Sir Charles. Who, my honest George Hastings ? As 
worthy a fellow as lives, and the girl could not have 
made a more prudent choice. 

Hardcastle. Then, by the hand of my body, I'm 
proud of the connection. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Well, if he has taken away the 
lady, he has not taken her fortune ; that remains in 
this family to console us for her loss. 

Hardcastle. Sure, Dorothy, yoxi would not be so 
mercenary ? 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, that's my affair, not yours. 

Hardcastle. But you know if your son, when of 
31 



362 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

age, refuses to marry his cousin, her whole fortune is 
then at her own disposal. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Ay, but he's not of age, and she 
has not thought proper to wait for his refusal. 

Enter Hastings and Miss Neville. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. (Aside) What, returned so soon. 
I begin not to like it. 

Hastings. (To Hardcastle) For my late attempt 
to fly off with your niece, let my present confusion be 
my punishment. We are now come back, to appeal 
from your justice to your humanity. By her father's 
consent I first paid her my addresses, and our passions 
were first founded in duty. 

Miss Neville. Since his death, I have been obliged 
to stoop to dissimulation to avoid oppression. In an 
hour of levity, I was ready even to give up my fortune 
to secure my choice : But I am now recovered from the 
delusion, and hope, from your tenderness, what is 
denied me from a nearer connection. 

Mrs. Hardcastle. Pshaw ! pshaw ; this is all but 
the whining end of a modern novel. 

Hardcastle. Be it what it will, I'm glad they're 
come back to reclaim their due. Come hither, Tony, 
boy. Do you refuse this lady's hand, whom I now 
offer you ? 

Tony. What signifies my refusing? You know I 
can't refuse her till I'm of age, father. 

Hardcastle. While I thought concealing your age, 
boy, was likely to conduce to your improvement, I 
concurred with your mother's desire to keep it secret. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 363 

But since I find she turns it to a wrong use, I must 
now declare you have been of age these three months. 

Tony. Of age ! Am I of age, father ? 

Hardcastle. Above three months. 

Tony. Then you '11 see the first use I '11 make of 
my liberty. {Taking Miss Neville's hand) Witness all 
men, by these presents, that I, Anthony Lumpkin, 
esquire, of blank place, refuse you, Constantia Neville, 
spinster, of no place at all, for my true and lawful wife. 
So Constance Neville may marry whom she pleases, 
and Tony Lumpkin is his own man again. 

Sir Charles. O brave Squire ! 

Hastings. My worthy friend ! 

Mrs. Hardcastle. My undutiful offspring ! 

Marloio. Joy, my dear George, I give you joy sin- 
cerely ! And, could I prevail upon my little tyrant 
here to be less arbitrary, I should be the happiest man 
alive, if you would return me the favor. 

Hastings. (To Miss Hardcastle) Come, madam, 
you are now driven to the very last scene of all your 
contrivances. I know you like him, I'm sure he loves 
you, and you must and shall have him. 

Hardcastle. (Joining their hands) And I say so, 
too. And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife 
as she has a daughter, I do n't believe you 'II ever re- 
pent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow 
we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and 
the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry 
morning. So, boy, take her ; and as you have been 
mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may 
never be mistaken in the wife. \_Exeunt Omnes. 



364 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 



EPILOGUE. 

BY DR. GOLDSMITH. 

SPOKEN BY MBS. BULKLET IN THE CHABACTEB OP MISS 
HABDCASTLE. 

Well, having stoop'd to conquer with success, 
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, 
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 
As I have conquer' d him to conquer you : 
And let me say, for all your resolution, 
That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
Our life is all a play, composed to please ; 
'We have our exits and our entrances.' 
The first act shows the simple country maid. 
Harmless and young, of everything afraid; 
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action, 
* I hopes as how to give you satisfaction. ' 
Her second act displays a livelier scene, — ■ 
Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, 
Who whisks about the house, at market caters, 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, 
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs ; 
On squires and cits she there displays her arts, 
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ; 
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
E'en common-councilmen forget to eat. 



SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 365 

The fourth act shews her wedded to the squire, 
And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
Pretends to taste, at opera cries caro, 
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro : 
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride, 
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside, 
Ogles and leers, with artificial skill, 
Till, having lost in age the power to kill, 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille 
Such, through our lives, th' eventful history ! 
The fifth and last act still remains for me : 
The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female Barrister, and pleads for Bays, 



366 SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER. 

EPILOGUE,* 

TO BE SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF TONY LUMPKIN, 

BY J. CEADOCK, ESQ. 

Well, now all's ended, and my comrades gone, 
Pray what becomes of mother's nonly son ? 
A hopeful blade ! — in town I'll fix my station, 
And try to make a bluster in the nation : 
As for my cousin Neville, I renouuce her — 
Off, in a crack, I'll carry big Bet Bouncer. 

"Why should not I in the great world appear ? 
I soon shall have a thousand pounds a year ! 
No matter what a man may here inherit, 
In London — gad, they've some regard to spirit. 
I see the horses prancing up the streets, 
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets; 
Then hoiks to jigs and pastimes every night — 
Not to the plays — they say it ain't polite: 
To Sadler's Wells, perhaps, or operas go, 
And once, by chance, to the roratorio. 
Thus, here and there, forever up and down ; 
We'll set the fashions, too, to half the town ; 
And then at auctions — money ne'er regard — 
Buy pictures, like the great, ten pounds a-yard: 
Zounds ! we shall make these London gentry say, 
We know what's damn'd genteel as well as they! 

* This came too late to be spoken. 



ESSAYS. 



INTRODUCTION. 



There is not, perhaps, a more whimsical figure in 
nature, than a man of real modesty who assumes an air 
of impudence ; who, while his heart beats with anxiety- 
studies ease and affects good-humor. In this situation, 
however, every unexperienced writer, as I am, finds 
himself. Impressed with terrors of the tribunal before 
which he is going to appear, his natural humor turns 
to pertness, and for real wit he is obliged to substitute 
vivacity. 

For my part, as I was never distinguished for address, 
and have often even blundered in making my bow. I am 
at a loss whether to be merry or sad on this solemn oc- 
casion. Should I modestly decline all merit, it is too 
probable the hasty reader may take me at my word. 
If, on the other hand, like laborers in the magazine 
trade, I humbly presume to promise an epitome of all 
the good things that were ever said or written, those 
readers I most desire to please may forsake me. 

My bookseller, in this dilemma, perceiving my embar- 
rassment, instantly offered his assistance and advice. 
" You must know, sir," says he, " that the republic of 
letters is at present divided into several classes. One 
writer excels at a plan or a title-page ; another works 
away at the body of the book ; and a third is a dab at an 
index. Thus a magazine is not the result of any single 



368 ESSAYS. 

man's industry, but goes through as many hands as a 
new pin, before it is fit for the public. I fancy, sir," con- 
tinues he, "I can provide an eminent hand, and upon 
moderate terms, to draw up a promising plan to smooth 
up our readers a little ; and pay them, as Colonel 
Chartres paid his seraglio, at the rate of three-half- 
pence in hand, and three shillings more in promises." 

He was proceeding in his advice, which, however, I 
thought proper to decline, by assuring him, that as I 
intended to pursue no fixed method, so it was impossi- 
ble to form any regular plan ; determined never to be 
tedious in order to be logical ; wherever pleasure pre- 
sented, I was resolved to follow. 

It will be improper, therefore, to pall the reader's 
curiosity by lessening his surprise, or anticipate any 
pleasure I am to procure him, by saying what shall 
come next. Happy, could any effort of mine but repress 
one criminal pleasure, or but for a moment fill up an 
interval of anxiety ? How gladly would I lead mankind 
from the vain prospects of life, to prospects of inno- 
cence and ease, where every breeze breathes health, and 
every sound is but the echo of tranquility ! 

But whatever may be the merit of his intentions, 
every writer is now convinced that he must be chiefly 
indebted to good fortune for finding readers willing to 
allow him any degree of reputation. It has been re- 
marked, that almost every character which has excited 
either attention or pity, has owed part of its success to 
merit, and part to a happy concurrence of circumstances 
in its favor. Had Caesar or Cromwell exchanged coun- 
tries, the one might have been a serjeant, and the other 



ESSAYS. 369 

an exciseman. So it is with wit, which generally suc- 
ceeds more from being happily addressed, than from its 
native poignancy. A jest calculated to spread at a gam- 
ing-table, may be received with perfect indifference 
should it happen to drop in a mackerel-boat. We have 
all seen dunces triumph in some companies, where men 
of real humor were disregarded, by a general combina- 
tion in favor of stupidity. To drive the observation as 
far as it will go, should the labors of a writer, who de- 
signs his performances for readers of a more refined 
appetite, fall into the hands of a devourer of compila- 
tions, what can he expect but contempt aud confusion ? 
If his merits are to be determined by judges who esti- 
mate the value of a book from its bulk, or its frontis- 
piece, every rival must acquire an easy superiority, 
who with persuasive eloquence promises four extra- 
ordinary pages of letter-press, or three beautiful prints, 
curiously colored from Nature. 

Thus, then, though I cannot promise as much en- 
tertainment, or as much elegance, as others have done, 
yet the reader may be assured he shall have as much 
of both as I can. He shall, at least, find me alive 
while I study his entertainment ; for I solemnly as- 
sure him I was never yet possessed of the secret of 
writing and sleeping. 

During the course of this paper, therefore, all the 
wit and learning I have, are heartily at his service ; 
which, if, after so candid a confession, he should, not- 
withstanding, still find intolerably dull, or low, or sad 
stuff, this I protest is more than I know ; I have a 
clear conscience, and am entirely out of the secret. 



370 ESSAYS. 

Yet I would not have hirn, ujion the perusal of a single 
paper, pronounce me incorrigible ; he may try a second, 
which, as there is a studied difference in subject and 
style, may be more suited to his taste ; if this also fails, 
I must refer him to a third, or even a fourth, in case of 
extremity : if he should still continue refractory, and 
find me dull to the last, I must inform him, with Bayes 
in the Rehearsal, that I think him a very odd kind of 
fellow, and desire no more of his acquaintance ; but still, 
if my readers impute the general tenor of my subject 
to me as a fault, I must beg leave to tell them a story. 
A traveller, in his way to Italy, found himself in a coun- 
try where the inhabitants had each a large excrescence 
depending from the chin ; a deformity which, as it was 
endemic, and the people little used to strangers, it had 
been the custom, time immemorial, to look upon as the 
greatest beauty. Ladies grew toasts from the size of 
their chins, and no men were beaux whose faces were 
not broadest at the bottom. It was Sunday ; a country- 
church was at hand, and our traveller was willing to per- 
form the duties of the day. Upon his first appearance 
at the church-door, the eyes of all were fixed on the 
stranger ; but what was their amazement, when they 
found that he actually wanted that emblem of beauty, a 
pursed chin ! Stifled bursts of laughter, winks, and whis- 
pers, circulated from visage to visage ; the prismatic fig- 
ure of the stranger's face, was a fund of infinite gaiety. 
Our traveller could no longer patiently continue an ob- 
ject of deformity to point at. " Good folks," said he, >b I 
perceive that I am a very ridiculous figure here, but I 
assure you I am reckoned no way deformed at home." 



ESSAYS. 371 



LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP, OR THE STORY OF AL- 
CANDER AND SEPTIMIUS. 

Taken from a Byzantine Historian. 

Athens, even long after the decline of the Roman 
empire, still continued the seat of learning, politeness, 
and wisdom. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, repaired the 
schools which barbarity was suffering to fall into de- 
cay, and continued those pensions to men of learning, 
which avaricious governors had monopolized. 

In this city, and about this period, Alcander and 
Septimius were fellow-students together ; the one, the 
most subtle reasoner of all the Lyceum ; the other, the 
most eloquent speaker in the Academic grove. Mutual 
admiration soon begot a friendship. Their fortunes 
were nearly equal, and they were natives of the two 
most celebrated cities in the world ; for Alcander was 
of Athens, Septimius came from Rome. 

In this state of harmony they lived for some time to- 
gether, when Alcander, after passing the first part of his 
youth in the indolence of philosophy, thought at length 
of entering into the busy world ; and as a step previous 
to this, placed his affections on Hypatia, a lady of exqui- 
site beauty. The day of their intended nuptials was 
fixed ; the previous ceremonies were performed ; and 
nothing now remained but her being conducted in tri- 
umph to the apartment of the intended bridegroom. 

Alcander's exultation in his own happiness, or being 
unable to enjoy any satisfaction without making his 
friend Septimius a partner, prevailed upon him to intro- 



372 ESSAYS. 

duce Hypatia to his fellow-student ; which he did, with 
all the gaiety of a man who found himself equally hap- 
py in friendship and love. But this was an interview 
fatal to the future peace of both ; for Septimius no 
sooner saw her but he was smitten with an involuntary 
passion ; and though he used every effort to suppress 
desires at once so imprudent and unjust, the emotions 
of his mind in a short time became so strong, that they 
brought on a fever, which the physicians judged incur- 
able. 

During this illness Alcander watched him with all the 
anxiety of fondness, and brought his mistress to join in 
those amiable offices of friendship. The sagacity of the 
phj'sicians, by these means, soon discovered that the 
cause of their patient's disorder was love ; and Alcan- 
der, being apprized of their discovery, at length ex- 
torted a confession from the reluctant dying lover. 

It would but delay the narrative to describe the con- 
flict between love and friendship in the breast of Al- 
cander on this occasion ; it is enough to say that the 
Athenians were at that time arrived at such refinement 
in morals, that every virtue was carried to excess : in 
short, forgetful of his own felicity, he gave up his in- 
tended bride, in all her charms, to the young Roman. 
They were married privately by his connivance, and 
this unlooked-for change of fortune wrought as unex- 
pected a change in the constitution of the now happy 
Septimius. In a few days he was perfectly recovered, 
and set out with his fair partner for Rome. Here, by 
an exertion of those talents which he was so eminent- 
ly possessed of, Septimius, in a few years, arrived at 



ESSAYS. 373 

the highest dignities of the state, and was constituted 
the city judge, or praetor. 

In the mean time Alcander not only felt the pain of 
being separated from his friend and his mistress, but a 
prosecution was commenced against him by the relations 
of Hypatia, for having basely given up his bride, as was 
suggested, for money. His innocence of the crime laid 
to his charge, and even his eloquence in his own de- 
fence, were not able to withstand the influence of a 
powerful party. He was cast, and condemned to pay 
an enormous fine. However, being unable to raise so 
large a sum at the time appointed, his possessions 
were confiscated, he himself was stripped of the habit 
of freedom, exjoosed as a slave in the market-place, 
and sold to the highest bidder. 

A merchant of Thrace becoming his purchaser, Al- 
cander, with some other companions of distress, was car- 
ried into that region of desolation and sterility. His 
stated employment was to follow the herds of an imperi- 
ous master, and his success in hunting was all that was 
allowed him to supply his precarious subsistence. Every 
morning awaked him to a renewal of famine or toil, and 
every change of season served but to aggravate his un- 
sheltered distress. After some years of bondage, how- 
ever, an opportunity of escaping offered ; he embraced 
it with ardor ; so that travelling by night, and lodging 
in caverns by day, to shorten a long story, he at last 
arrived in Rome. The same day on which Alcander 
arrived, Septimius sat administering justice in the for- 
um, whither our wanderer came, expecting to be instant- 
ly known, and publicly acknowledged by his former 
32 



374 ESSAYS. 

friend. Here he stood the whole day amongst the 
crowd, watching the eyes of the judge, and expecting 
to be taken notice of, but he was so much altered by 
a long succession of hardships, that he continued unno- 
ticed amongst the rest ; and in the evening, when he 
was going up to the praetor's chair, he was brutally re- 
pulsed by the attending lictors. The attention of the 
poor is driven from one ungrateful object to another; 
for night coming on, he now found himself under the 
necessity of seeking a place to lie in, and yet knew not 
where to apply. All emaciated, and in rags, as he was, 
none of the citizens would harbor so much wretched- 
ness ; and sleeping in the streets might be attended 
with interruption or danger ; in short, he was obliged 
to take up his lodgings in one of the tombs without 
the city, the usual retreat of guilt, poverty, and des- 
pair. In this mansion of horror, laying his head upon 
an inverted urn, he forgot his miseries for a while in 
sleep, and found on his flinty couch more ease than 
beds of down can supply to the guilty. 

As he continued here, about midnight two robbers 
came to make this their retreat, but happening to dis- 
agree about the division of their plunder, one of them 
stabbed the other to the heart, and left him weltering in 
blood at the entrance. In these circumstances he was 
found next morning dead at the mouth of the vault. 
This naturally inducing a farther inquiry, an alarm was 
spread ; the cave was examined ; and Alcander being 
found, was immediately apprehended, and accused of 
robbery and murder. The circumstances against him 
were strong, and the wretchedness of his appearance 
confirmed suspicion. Misfortune and he were now so 



ESSAYS. 375 

long acquainted, that he at last became regardless of life. 
He detested a world where he had found only ingrati- 
tude, falsehood, and cruelty ; he was determined to make 
no defence ; and thus, lowering with resolution, he was 
dragged bound with cords before the tribunal of Sep- 
timius. As the proofs were positive against him, and he 
offered nothing in his own vindication, the judge was 
proceeding to doom him to a most cruel and ignomini- 
ous death, when the attention of the multitude was 
soon diverted by another object. The robber, who had 
been really guilty, was apprehended selling his plun- 
der, and struck with a panic, had confessed his crime. 
He was brought bound to the same tribunal, and ac- 
quitted every other person of any partnership in his 
guilt. Alcander's innocence therefore appeared ; but 
the sullen rashness of his conduct remained a wonder 
to the surrounding multitude ; but their astonishment 
was still farther increased when they saw their judge 
start from his tribunal to embrace the supposed crim- 
inal. Septimius recollected his friend and former bene- 
factor, and hung upon his neck with tears of pity and 
joy. Need the sequel be related? — Alcander was ac- 
quitted, shared the friendship and honors of the prin- 
cipal citizens of Rome, lived afterwards in happiness 
and ease, and left it to be engraved on his tomb, that 
no circumstances are so desperate which Providence 
may not relieve. 



ON HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. 

"When I reflect on the unambitious retirement in 
which I passed the early part of my life in the country, 



.376 ESSAYS. 

I cannot avoid feeling some pain in thinking that those 
happy days are never to return. In that retreat all 
nature seemed capable of affording pleasure ; I then 
made no refinements on happiness, but could be pleased 
with the most awkard efforts of rustic mirth, thought 
cross-purposes the highest stretch of human wit, and 
questions and commands the most rational way of 
spending the evening. Happy could so charming an 
illusion continue ! I find that age and knowledge only 
contribu:e to sour our dispositions. My present enjoy- 
ments may be more refined, but they are infinitely less 
pleasing. The pleasure the best actor gives, can no 
way compare to that I have received from a country 
wag who imitated a quaker's sermon. The music of 
the finest singer is dissonance to what I felt when our 
old dairy-maid sung me into tears with Johnny Arm- 
strong's Last Good Night, or the Cruelty of Barbara 
Allen. 

Writers of every age have endeavored to show that 
pleasure is in us, and not in the objects offered for our 
amusement. If the soul be happily disposed, everything 
becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress 
will almost want a name. Every occurrence passes in 
review like the figures of a procession : some may be 
awkward, others ill-dressed ; but none but a fool is for 
this enraged with the master of the ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave in a fortification 
in Flanders, who appeared no way touched with his 
situation. He was maimed, deformed, and chained : 
obliged to toil from the appearance of day till night- 
fall ; and condemned to this for life : yet, with all these 
circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sung, would 



ESSAYS. 377 

have danced bat that he wanted a leg, and appeared the 
merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a prac- 
tical philosopher was here ! a happy constitution sup- 
plied philosophy ; and though seemingly destitute of 
wisdom, he was really wise. No reading or study had 
contributed to disenchant the fairy-land about him. 
Everything furnished him with an opportunity of mirth ; 
and, though some thought him, from his insensibility, a 
fool, he was such an idiot as philosophers should wish to 
imitate ; for all philosophy is only forcing the trade of 
happiness, when nature seems to deny the means. 

They who, like our slave, can place themselves on 
that side of the world in which everything appears in a 
pleasing light, will find something in every occurrence to 
excite their good-humor. The most calamitous events, 
either to themselves or others, can bring no new afflic- 
tion ; the whole world is to them a theatre, on which 
comedies only are acted. All the bustle of heroism, or 
the rants of ambition, serve only to heighten the ab- 
surdity of the scene, and make the humor more poign- 
ant. They feel, in short, as little anguish at their own 
distress, or the complaints of others, as the undertaker, 
though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a funeral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous cardinal de 
Retz possessed this happiness of temper in the highest 
degree. As he was a man of gallantry, and despised all 
that wore the pedantic appearance of philosophy, where- 
ever pleasure was to be sold, he was generally foremost 
to raise the auction. Being a universal admirer of the 
fair sex, when he found one lady cruel, he generally 
fell in love with another, from whom he expected s 
32* 



378 ESSAYS. 

more favorable reception. If she too rejected his ad- 
dresses he never thought of retiring into deserts, or 
pining in hopeless distress : he persuaded himself, that 
instead of loving the lady, he only fancied that he had 
loved her and so all was well again. When fortune 
wore her angriest look, and he at last fell into the pow- 
er of his most deadly enemy, Cardinal Mazarine (being 
confined a close prisoner in the castle of Valenciennes), 
he never attempted to support his distress by wisdom 
or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He only 
laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed in- 
finitely pleased at his new situation. In this mansion 
of distress, though secluded from his friends, though 
denied all the amusements, and even the conveniences 
of life, he still retained his good-humor, laughed at all 
the little spite of his enemies, and carried the jest so 
far as to be revenged by writing the life of his jailer. 

All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is to be 
stubborn or sullen under misfortunes. The cardinal's 
example will instruct us to be merry in circumstances 
of the highest affliction. It matters not whether our 
good-humor be construed by others into insensibility, 
or even idiotism ; it is happiness to ourselves, and none 
but a fool would measure his satisfaction by what the 
world thinks of it ; for my own part, I never pass by 
one of our prisons for debt, that I do not envy that 
felicity which is still going forward among those peo- 
ple, who forget the cares of the world by being shut 
out from its silly ambition. 

The happiest silly fellow I ever knew, was of the 
number of those good-natured creatures that are said to 
do no harm to any but themselves. Whenever he fell 



ESSAYS. 379 

into misery, he usually called it seeing life. If his head 
was broke by a chairman, or his pocket picked by a 
sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the Hiber- 
nian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of 
the other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention 
to money-matters had incensed his father to such a de- 
gree, that all the intercession of friends in his favor was 
fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
The whole family, and Dick among the number, gath- 
ered around him. " I leave my second son, Andrew," 
said the expiring miser, " my whole estate, and desire 
him to be frugal." Andrew, in a sorrowful tone, as is 
usual on these occasions, prayed Heaven to prolong his 
life and health to enjoy it himself. " I recommend Si- 
mon, my third son, to the care of his elder brother, and 
leave him beside four thousand pounds." — "Ah ! father," 
cried Simon, in great affliction to be sure, " may Heaven 
give you life and health to enjoy it yourself ! " At last, 
turning to poor Dick, "As for you, you have always 
been a sad dog ; you'll never come to good ; you'll 
never be rich ; I'll leave you a shilling to buy a hal- 
ter." — "Ah ! father," cries Dick, without any emotion, 
" may Heaven give you life and health to enjoy it 
yourself ! " This was all the trouble the loss of for- 
tune gave this thoughtless, imprudent creature. How- 
ever, the tenderness of an uncle recompensed the ne- 
glect of a father ; and my friend is now not only ex- 
cessively good-humored, but competently rich. 

Yes, let the world cry out at a bankrupt who ajjpears 
at a ball, at an author who laughs at the public which 
pronounces him a dunce, at a general who smiles at the 
approach of the vulgar, or the lady who keeps her 



380 ESSAYS. 

good humor in spite of scandal ; but such is the wisest 
behavior that any of us can possibly assume. It is 
certainly a better way to oppose calamity by dissipa- 
tion, than to take up the arms of reason or resolution 
to oppose it ; by the first method, we forget our miser- 
ies ; by the last, we only conceal them from others : 
by struggling with misfortunes, we are sure to receive 
some wounds in the conflict ; but a sure method to 
come off victorious, is by running away. 



DESCRIPTION OF VARIOUS CLUBS. 

I remember to have read in some philosopher (I be- 
lieve in Tom Brown's works), that, let a man's char- 
acter, sentiments, or complexion, be what they will, he 
can find company in London to match them. If 
he be splenetic, he may every day meet companions 
on the seats in St. James's Park, with whose groans 
he may mix his own, and pathetically talk of the 
weather. If he be passionate, he may vent his rage 
among the old orators at Slaughter's coffee-house, and 
damn the nation because it keeps him from starving. 
If he be phlegmatic, he may sit in silence at the Hum- 
drum club in Ivy-lane ; and, if actually mad, he may 
find very good company in Moorfields, either at Bed- 
lam or the Foundry, ready to cultivate a nearer ac- 
quaintance. 

But, although such as have a knowledge of the town 
may easily class themselves with tempers congenial to 
their own, a countryman who comes to live in London 
finds nothing more dfficult. With regard to myself, 



ESSAYS. 381 

none ever tried with more assiduity, or came off with 
such indifferent success. I spent a whole season in 
the search, during which time my name has been en- 
rolled in societies, lodges, convocations, and meetings, 
without number. To some I was introduced by a 
friend, to others invited by an advertisement ; to these 
I introduced myself, and to those I changed my name 
to gain admittance. In short, no coquette was ever 
more solicitous to match her ribands to her complex- 
ion, than I to suit my club to my temper ; for I was 
too obstinate to bring my temper to conform to it. 

The first club I entered, upon coming to town, was 
that of the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely 
suited to my taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good- 
humor, and even sometimes of fun, from my childhood. 

As no other passport was requisite but the payment 
of two shillings at the door, I introduced myself with- 
out farther ceremony to the members, who were already 
assembled, and had, for some time, begun upon busi- 
ness. The grand, with a mallet in his hand, presided 
at the head of the table. I could not avoid, upon my 
entrance, making use of all my skill in physiognomy, 
in order to discover that superiority of genius in men 
who had taken a title so superior to the rest of man- 
kind. I expected to see the lines of every face mark- 
ed with strong thinking ; but, though I had some skill 
in this science, I could for my life discover nothing but 
a pert simper, fat or profound stupidity. 

My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand 
who had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I 
was upon this, whispered by one of the company who 
sat next me, that I should now see something touched 



382 ESSAYS. 

off to a nicety, for Mr. Spriggins was going to give us 
Mad Tom in all its glory. Mr. Spriggins endeavored 
to excuse himself ; for, as he was to act a madman and 
a king, it was impossible to go through the part prop- 
erly without a crown and chains. His excuses were 
overruled by a great majority, and with much vocif- 
eration. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; and, 
instead of a crown, our performer covered his brows 
with an inverted Jordan. After he had rattled his 
chain, and shook his head, to the great delight of the 
whole company, he began his song. As I have heard 
few young fellows offer to sing in company that did 
not expose themselves, it was no great disappointment 
to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number ; how- 
ever, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat in 
rapture, cried out, " Bravo ! encore ! " and slapped the 
table as loud as any of the rest. 

The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly 
pleased with my taste, and the ardor of my ajoproba- 
tion ; and whispering told me I had suffered an im- 
mense loss ; for, had I come a few minutes sooner, I 
might have heard Geeho Dobbin sung in a tiptop man- 
ner, by the pimpled-nose spirit at the president's right 
elbow ; but he was evaporated before I came. 

As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint- 
ment, I found the attention of the company employed 
upon a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough than the 
Staffordshire giant's, was giving us the " Softly sweet, in 
Lydian measure," of Alexander's Feast. After a short 
pause of admiration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue, 
with the humors of Teague and Taffy ; after that came 
an Old Jackson, with a story between every stanza: 



ESSAYS. 383 

next was sung the Dust-Cart, and then Solomon's 
Song. The glass began now to circulate pretty freely ; 
those who were silent when sober, would now be heard 
in their turn, every man had his song, and he saw no 
reason why he should not be heard as well as any of 
the rest : one begged to be heard while he gave Death 
and the Lady in high taste ; another sung to a plate 
which he kept trundling on the edges ; nothing was 
now heard but singing, voice rose above voice, and the 
whole became one universal shout, when the landlord 
came to acquaint the company that the reckoning was 
drunk out. Rabelais calls the moments in which a 
reckoning is mentioned, the most melancholy of our 
lives : never was so much noise so quickly quelled, as 
by this short but pathetic oration of our landloi'd. 
" Drunk out ! " was echoed in a tone of discontent 
round the table : " drunk out already ! that was very 
odd ! that so much punch could be drunk out already ! 
impossible ! " The landlord, however, seeming re- 
solved not to retreat from his first assurances, the com- 
pany was dissolved, and a president chosen for the 
night ensuing. 

A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some- 
time after of the entertainment I have been describing, 
proposed to bring me to the club that he frequented ; 
which he fancied, would suit the gravity of my temper 
exactly. "We have at the Muzzy club," says he, "no 
riotous mirth nor awkward ribaldry ; no confusion or 
bawling ; all is conducted with wisdom and decency : be- 
sides, some of our members are worth forty thousand 
pounds ; men of prudence and foresight every one of 
them : these are the proper acquaintance, and to sr"J» I 



384 ESSAYS. 

will to-night introduce you." I was charmed at the 
proposal ; to be acquainted with men worth forty 
thousand pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, 
were offers that threw me into rapture. 

At seven o'clock, I was accordingly introduced by 
my friend ; not indeed to the company, for, though I 
made my best bow, they seemed insensible of my ap- 
proach ; but to the table at which they were sitting. 
Upon my entering the room, I could not avoid feeling 
a secret veneration from the solemnity of the scene 
before me ; the members kept a profound silence, each 
with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter pot in his hand, 
and with faces that might easily be construed into ab- 
solute wisdom. Happy society ! thought I to myself, 
where the members think before they speak, deliver 
nothing rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other 
pregnant with meaning, and matured by reflection. 

In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half 
hour, expecting each moment tbat somebody would be- 
gin to open his mouth ; every time the pipe was laid 
down, I expected it was to speak ; but it was only to 
spit. At length, resolving to break the charm myself, 
and overcome their extreme diffidence, for to this I 
imputed their silence, I rubbed my hands, and looking 
as wise as possible, observed that the nights began to 
grow a little coolish at this time of the year. This, as 
it was directed to none of the company in particular, 
none thought himself obliged to answer ; wherefore I 
continued still to rub my hands and look wise. My 
next effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next 
me ; to whom I observed, that the beer was extremely 



ESSAYS. 385 

good ; my neighbor made no reply, but by a large puff 
of tobacco smoke. 

I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till 
one of them a little relieved me by observing, that 
bread had not risen these three weeks. "Ah ! " says 
another, still keeping the pipe in his mouth, " that 
puts me in mind of a pleasant story about that — hem 
— very well ; you must know — but, before I begin — 
sir, my service to you — where was I?" 

My next club goes by the name of the Harmonica! 
Society ; probably from that love of order and friend- 
ship which every person commends in institutions of 
this nature. The landlord was himself founder. The 
money spent is fourpence each ; and they sometimes 
whip for a double reckoning. To this club few re- 
commendations are requisite except the introductory 
fourpence, and my landlord's good word, which, as he 
gains by it, he never refuses. 

We all here talked and behaved as every body else 
usually does on his club-night ; we discussed the topic 
of the day, drank each other's healths, snuffed the can- 
dles with our fingers, and filled our pipes from the same 
plate of tobacco. The company saluted each other in 
the common manner. Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. 
Curry-comb-maker had not caught cold going home the 
last club-night ; and he returned the complement by 
hoping that young Master Bellows-mender had got 
well again of the chin-cough. Doctor Twist told us a 
story of a parliament man with whom he was intimately 
acquainted ; while the bug-man, at the same time, was 
telling a better story of a noble lord with whom he 
33 



386 ESSAYS. 

could do anything. A gentleman in a black wig and 
leather breeches, at the other end of the table, was en- 
gaged in a long narrative of the ghost in Cock-lane : 
he had read it in the papers of the day, and was telling 
it to some that sat next him, who could not read. Near 
him Mr. Dibbins was disputing on the old subject of 
religion with a Jew pedlar, over the table, while the 
president vainly knocked down Mr. Leathersides for 
a song. Besides the combination of these voices, 
which I could hear all together, and which formed an 
upper part to the concert, there were several others 
playing under parts by themselves, and endeavoring to 
fasten on some luckless neighbor's ear, who was him- 
self bent upon the same design against some other. 

We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, 
and this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, 
taken in short hand, word for word, as it was spoken 
by every member of the company. It may be neces- 
sary to observe, that the man who told of the ghost 
had the loudest voice and the longest story to tell, so 
that his continuing narrative filled every chasm in the 
conversation. 

" So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three 
loud raps at the bed-post" — " Says my lord to me, My 
dear Smokeum, you know there is no man upon the 
face of the yearth for whom I have so high" — ''A dam- 
nable false heretical opinion of all sound doctrine and 
good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud, and spare not, that" 
— " Silence for a song; Mr. Leathersides for a song" 
— As I was walking upon the highway, I met a young 
damsel " — " Then what brings you here ? says the par- 
son to the ghost " — " Sanconiathon, Manetho, and 



ESSAYS. 387 

Berosus " — " The whole way from Islington turnpike 
to Dog-house bar" — "Dam" — "As for Abel Drug- 
ger. sir, he's damn'd low in it ; my prentice boy has 
more of the gentleman than he " — " For murder will 
out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, you 
know, gentlemen, can " — " Damn if I do n't ; for my 
friend, whom you know, gentlemen, and who is a par- 
liament man, a man of consequence, a dear honest creat- 
ure, to be sure ; we were laughing last night at " — 
" Death and damnation ujDon all his posterity by simply 
barely tasting '" — " Sour grapes, as the fox said once 
Avhen he could not reach them ; and I'll, I'll tell you a 
story about that, that will make you burst your sides 
with laughing. A fox once " — " Will nobody listen to 
the song? " — "As I was a walking upon the highway, 
I met a young damsel both buxom and gay " — " No 
ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; nor did I ever hear 
but of one ghost killed in all my life, and that was 
stabbed in the belly with a " — " My blood and soul if 
I do n't " — " Mr. Bellows-mender ; I have the honor 
of drinking your very good health " — " Blast me if I 
do " — " Dam " — " Blood " — " Bugs " — " Fire " — 
" Whiz "— " Blicl "— " Tit "— " Bat "— " Trip "—The 
rest all riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. 

Were I to be angry at men for being fools, I could 
here find ample room for declamation ; but alas ! I 
have been a fool myself ; and why should I be angry 
with them for being something so natural to every 
child of humanity ? 

Fatigued with this society, I was introduced, the fol- 
lowing night, to a club of fashion. On taking my 



388 ESSAYS. 

place, I found the conversation sufficiently easy, and 
tolerably good-natured ; for my lord and Sir Paul were 
not yet arrived. I now thought myself completely 
fitted, and resolving to seek no farther, determined to 
take up my residence here for the winter : while my 
temper began to open insensibly to the cheerfulness I 
saw diffused on every face in the room : but the delu= 
sion soon vanished, when the waiter came to apprize 
us that his lordship and Sir Paul were just arrived. 

From this moment all our felicity was at an end ; 
our new guests bustled into the room, and took their 
seats at the head of the table. Adieu now all confi- 
dence ; every creature strove who should most recom- 
mend himself to our members of distinction. Each 
seemed quite regardless of pleasing any but our new 
guests ; and what before wore the appearance of friend- 
ship, was now turned into rivalry. 

Yet I could not observe that, amidst all this flattery 
and obsequious attention, our great men took any no- 
tice of the rest of the company. Their whole dis- 
course was addressed to each other. Sir Paul told his 
lordship a long story of Moravia the Jew ; and his 
lordship gave Sir Paul a very long account of his new 
method of managing silkworms ; he led him, and con- 
sequently the rest of the company, through all the sta- 
ges of feeding, sunning, and hatching : with an episode 
on mulberry-trees, a digression upon grass-seeds, and 
a long parenthesis about his new postilion. In this 
manner we travelled on, wishing every story to be the 
last ; but all in vain : — 

"Hills over hills, and Alps on Alps arose." 



ESSAYS* 389 

The last club in which I was enrolled a member, 
was a society of moral philosophers, as they called 
themselves, who assembled twice a week, in order to 
show the absurdity of the present mode of religion, 
and establish a new one in its stead. 

I found the members very warmly disputing when 
I arrived; not indeed about religion or ethics, but 
about who had neglected to lay down his preliminary 
sixpence upon entering the room. The president swore 
that he had laid his own down, and so swore all the 
company. 

During this contest, I had an opportunity of observ- 
ing the laws, and also the members of the society. 
The president, who had been, as I was told, lately a 
bankrupt, was a tall, pale figure, with a long black 
wig ; the next to him was dressed in a large white 
wig, and a black cravat ; a third, by the brownness of 
his complexion seemed a native of Jamaica ; and a 
fourth, by his hue, appeared to be a blacksmith. But 
their rules will give the most just idea of their learn- 
ing and principles. 

" I. We, being a laudable society of moral philoso- 
phers, intend to dispute twice a week about religion 
and priestcraft ; leaving behind us old wives' tales, and 
following good learning and sound sense ; and if so 
be, that any other persons has a mind to be of the so- 
ciety, they shall be entitled so to do, upon paying the 
sum of three shillings, to be spent by the company in 
punch. 

" II. That no member get drunk before nine of the 
clock, upon pain of forfeiting three-pence, to be spent 
by the company in punch. 33* 



390 ESSAYS. 

" III. That as members are sometimes apt to go away 
"without paying, every person shall pay sixpence upon 
his entering the room ; and all disputes shall be settled 
by a majority ; and all fines shall be paid in punch. 

" IV. That sixpence shall be every night given to 
the president, in order to buy books of learning for the 
good of the society ; the president has already put him- 
self to a good deal of expense in buying books for the 
club ; particularly the works of Tully, Socrates, 
Cicero, which he will soon read to the Society. 

" V. All them who brings a new argument against 
religion, and who, being a philosopher, and a man of 
learning, as the rest of us is, shall be admitted to the 
freedom of the Society, upon paying sixpence only, to 
be spent in punch. 

" VI. Whenever we are to have an extraordinary 
meeting, it shall be advertised by some outlandish 
name in the newspapers. 

" Saunders Mac Wild, President. 
Anthony Blewit, Vice President. 

his t mark. 
William Turpin, Secretary." 



ON THE POLICY OP CONCEALING OUK WANTS, 
OR POVERTY. 

It is usually said by grammarians, that the use of 
language is to express our wants and desires ; but men 
who know the world, hold, and I think with some 
show of reason, that he who best knows how to keep 
his necessities private, is the most likely person to hav* 



ESSAYS. 391 

them redressed. ; and that the true use of speech is not 
so much to express our wants as to conceal them. 

When we reflect on the manner in which mankind 
generally confer their favors, there appears something 
so attractive in riches, that the large heap generally 
collects from the smaller ; and the poor find as much 
pleasure in increasing the enormous mass of the rich 
as the miser, who owns it, sees happiness in its increase. 
Nor is there anything in this repugnant to the laws of 
humanity. Seneca himself allows, that, in confer- 
ring benefits, the present should always be suited to 
the dignity of the receiver. Thus the rich receive 
large presents, and are thanked for accepting them. 
Men of middling stations are obliged to be content 
with presents something less ; while the beggar, who 
may be truly said to want indeed, is well paid if a 
farthing rewards his warmest solicitations. 

Every man who has seen the world, and has had his 
ups and downs in life, as the expression is, must have 
frequently experienced the truth of this doctrine ; and 
must know, that to have much, or to seem to have it, is 
the only way to have more. Ovid finely compares a 
man of broken fortune to a falling column ; the lower 
it sinks, the greater weight is it obliged to sustain. 
Thus, when a man's circumstances are such that he 
has no occasion to borrow, he finds numbers willing to 
lend him ; but should his wants be such, that he sues 
for a trifle, it is two to one whether he may be trusted 
with the smallest sum. A certain young fellow, whom 
I knew, whenever he had occasion to ask his friend 
for a guinea, used to prelude his request as if he want- 
ed two hundred ; and talked so familiarly of large 



392 



sums, that none could ever think he wanted a small 
one. The same gentleman, whenever he wanted 
credit for a suit of clothes, always made the proposal 
in a laced coat ; for he found, by experience, that if 
he appeared shabby on these occasions, his tailor had 
taken an oath against trusting, or, what was every 
whit as bad, his foreman was out of the way, and 
would not be at home for some time. 

There can be no inducement to reveal our wants, 
except to find pity, and by this means relief ; but be- 
fore a poor man opens his mind in such circumstances, 
he should first consider whether he is contented to lose 
the esteem of the person he solicits, and whether he is 
willing to give up friendship to excite compassion. 
Pity and friendship are passions incompatible with 
each other ; and it is impossible that both can reside 
in any breast, for the smallest space, without impair- 
ing each other. Friendship is made up of esteem and 
pleasure ; pity is composed of sorrow and contempt : 
the mind may, for some time, fluctuate between them, 
but it can never entertain both at once. 

In fact, pity, though it may often relieve, is bur, at 
best, a short-lived passion, and seldom affords distress 
more than transitory assistance ; with some it scarce 
lasts from the first impulse till the hand can be put 
into the pocket ; with others it may continue for twice 
that space ; and on some of extraordinary sensibility, 
I have seen it operate for half an hour together ; but 
still, last as it may, it generally produces but beggarly 
effects, and where, from this motive, we give five farth- 
ings, from others we give pounds : whatever be our feel- 
ings from the first impulse of distress, when the same 



ESSAYS. 393 

distress solicits a second time we then feel with dimin* 
ished sensibility ; and, like the repetition of an echo, 
every stroke becomes weaker : till, at last, our sensa~ 
tions lose all mixture of sorrow, and degenerate into 
downright contempt. 

These speculations bring to my mind the fate of a 
very good-natured fellow who is now no more. He was 
bred in a counting-house, and his father dying just as 
he was out of his time, left him a handsome fortune, 
and many friends to advise with. The restraint in 
which my friend had been brought up, had thrown a 
gloom upon his temper, which some regarded as prud- 
ence ; and, from such considerations, he had every day 
repeated offers of friendship. Such as had money, 
were ready to offer him their assistance that way ; and 
they who had daughters, frequently, in the warmth of 
affection, advised him to marry. My friend, however, 
was in good circumstances ; he wanted neither their 
money, friends, nor a wife ; and therefore modestly 
declined their proposals. 

Some errors, however, in the management of his af- 
fairs, and several losses in trade, soon brought him to 
a different way of thinking ; and he at last considered, 
that it was his best way to let his friends know that 
their offers were at length acceptable. His first ad- 
dress was to a scrivener, who had formerly made him 
frequent offers of money and friendship, at a time 
when, perhaps, he knew those offers would have been 
refused. As a man, therefore, confident of not being 
refused, he requested the use of a hundred guineas for 
a few days, as he just then had occasion for money. 
"And pray, sir," replied the scrivener, " do you want 



394 ESSAYS. 

all this money?" — "Want it, sir! "says the other; 
"if I did not want it I should not have asked it." — 
" I am sorry for that," says the friend, " for those who 
want money whenthey borrow, will always want money 
when they should come to pay. To say the truth, sir, 
money is money now ; and I believe it is all sunk in 
the bottom of the sea, for my part ; he that has got a 
little, is a fool if he does not keep what he has got." 

Not quite disconcerted by this refusal, our adven- 
turer was resolved to try another, who he knew was 
the very best firiend he had in the world. The gen- 
tleman whom he now addressed, received his proposal 
with all the affability that could be expected from gen- 
erous friendship. " Let me see, you want a hundred 
guineas : and pray, dear Jack, would not fifty an- 
swer ? " — ■" If you have but fifty to spare, sir, I must 
be contented." — " Fifty to spare ! I did not say that, 
for I believe I have but twenty about me." — " Then I 
must borrow the other thirty from some other friend." 
— "And pray," replied the friend, "would it not be 
the best way to borrow the whole money from that 
other friend, and then one note will serve for all, you 
know ? You know, my dear sir, that you need make 
no ceremony with me at any time ; you know, I'm 
your friend ; and when you choose a bit of dinner or 
so — You, Tom, see the gentleman down. You won't 
forget to dine with us now and then. Your very 
humble servant." 

Distressed, but not discouraged, at this treatment, 
he was at last resolved to find that assistance from 
love, which he could not have from friendship. A 
young lady, a distant relation by the mother's side, had 



ESSAYS. 395 

a, fortune in her own hands : and, as she had already 
made all the advances that her sex's modesty would 
permit, he made his proposal with confidence. He soon, 
however, perceived that no bankrupt ever found the 
fair one kind. She had lately fallen deeply in love 
with another, who had more money, and the whole 
neighborhood thought it would be a match. 

Every day now began to strip my poor friend of his 
former finery ; his clothes flew, piece by piece, to the 
pawnbroker's, and he seemed at length equipped in the 
genuine livery of misfortune. But still he thought 
himself secure from actual necessity ; the numberless 
invitations he had received to dine, even after his 
losses, were yet unanswered ; he was therefore now 
resolved to accept of a dinner, because he wanted one ; 
and in this manner he actually lived among his friends 
a whole week without being openly affronted. The last 
place I saw him in was at a reverend divine's. He 
had, as he fancied, just nicked the time of dinner, for 
he came in as the cloth was laying. He took a chair, 
without being desired, and talked for some time with- 
out being attended to. He assured the company, that 
nothing procured so good an appetke as a walk in the 
Park, where he had been that morning. He went on, 
and praised the figure of the damask table-cloth ; talk- 
ed of a feast where he had been the day before, but 
that the venison was over-done. But all this procured 
him no invitation ; finding, therefore, the gentleman of 
the house insensible to all his fetches, he thought 
proper, at last to retire, and mend his appetite by a 
second walk in the Park. 

You then, O ye beggars of my aoquaintaince, wheth" 



396 ESSAYS. 

er in rags or lace, whether in Kent street or the Mall, 
whether at the Smyrna or St. Giles's, might I be per- 
mitted to advise as a friend, never seem to want the 
favor which you solicit. Apply to every passion but 
human pity for redress ; you may find permanent re- 
lief from vanity, from self-interest, or from avarice, 
but from compassion never. The very eloquence of p, 
poor man is disgusting ; and that mouth which is open 
ed even by wisdom, is seldom expected to close with 
out the horrors of a petition. 

To ward off the gripe of poverty, you must pretend 
to be a stranger to her, and she will at least use you 
with ceremony. If you be caught dining upon a half- 
penny porringer of peas-soup and potatoes, praise the 
wholesomeness of your frugal repast. You may ob- 
serve that Dr. Cheyne has prescribed peas-broth for 
the gravel ; hint that you are not one of those who are 
always making a deity of your belly. If, again, you 
are obliged to wear a flimsy stuff in the midst of win- 
ter, be the first to remark, that stuffs are very much 
worn at Paris ; or, if there be found any irreparable 
defects in any part of your equipage, which cannot be 
concealed by all the arts of sitting cross-legged, coax- 
ing, or darning, say, that neither you nor Sir Samson 
Gideon were ever very fond of dress. If you be a 
philosopher, hint that Plato or Seneca are the tailors 
you choose to employ ; assure the company that man 
ought to be content with a bare covering, since what 
now is so much his pride, was formerly his shame. In 
short, however caught, never give out ; but ascribe to 
the frugality of your disposition what others might be 
apt to attribute to the narrowness of your circumstan- 



ESSAYS. 397 

ces. To be poor, and to seem poor, is a certain meth- 
od never to rise ; pride in the great is hateful ; in the 
wise it is ridiculous ; but beggarly pride is a rational 
vanity, which I have been taught to applaud and excuse. 



ON GENEEOSITY AND JUSTICE. 

Lysippus is a man whose greatness of soul the 
whole world admires. His generosity is such, that it 
prevents a demand, and saves the receiver the confu- 
sion of a request. His liberality also does not oblige 
more by its greatness, tnan by his inimitable grace in 
giving. Sometimes he even distributes his bounties to 
strangers, and has been known to do good offices to 
those who professed themselves his enemies. All the 
world are unanimous in the praise of his generosity : 
there is only one sort of people who complain of his 
conduct. Lysippus does not pay his debts. 

It is no difficult matter to account for a conduct so 
seemingly incompatible with itself. There is greatness 
in being generous, and there is only simple justice in 
satisfying creditors. Generosity is the part of a soul 
raised above the vulgar. There is in it something of 
what we admire in heroes, and praise with a degree of 
rapture. Justice, on the contrary, is a mechanic vir- 
tue, only fit for tradesmen, and what is practised by 
every broker in Change- alley. 

In paying his debts a man barely does his duty, and 
it is an action attended with no sort of glory. Should 
Lysippus satisfy his creditors, who would be at the 
34 



398 ESSAYS. 

pains of telling it to the world ? Generosity is a vir- 
tue of a very different complexion. It is raised above 
duty, and from its elevation attracts the attention and 
the praises of us little mortals below. 

In this manner do men generally reason upon justice 
and generosity. The first is despised, though a virtue 
essential to the good of society, and the other attracts 
our esteem, which too frequently proceeds from an im- 
petuosity of temper, rather directed by vanity than 
reason. Lysippus is told that his banker asks a debt 
of forty pounds, and that a distressed acquaintance 
petitions for the same sum. He gives it without hesi- 
tating to the latter, for he demands as a favor what 
the former requires as a debt. 

Mankind in general are not sufficiently acquainted 
with the import of the word justice : it, is commonly 
believed to consist only in a performance of those du- 
ties to which the laws of society can oblige us. This 
I allow is sometimes the import of the word, and in 
this sense justice is distinguished from equity ; but 
there is a justice still more extensive, and which can 
be shown to embrace all the virtues united. 

Justice may be defined, that virtue which impels us 
to give to every person what is his due. In this ex- 
tended sense of the word, it comprehends the practice 
of every virtue which reason prescribes, or society 
should expect. Our duty to our Maker, to each other, 
and to ourselves, are fully answered, if we give them 
what we owe them. Thus justice, properly speaking, 
is the only virtue; and all the rest have their origin 
\n it. 

The qualities of candor, fortitude, charity, and gene- 



ESSAYS. 399 

rosity, for instance, are not in their own nature virtues, 
and if ever they deserve the title, it is owing only to 
justice, which impels and directs them. Without such 
a moderator, candor might become indiscretion, forti- 
tude obstinacy, charity imprudence, and generosity 
mistaken profusion. 

A disinterested action, if it be not conducted by jus- 
tice, is, at best, indifferent in its nature, and not unfre- 
quently even turns to vice. The expenses of society, 
of presents, of entertainments, and the other helps to 
cheerfulness, are actions merely indifferent, when not 
repugnant to a better method of disposing of our sup- 
erfluities ; but they become vicious when they obstruct 
or exhaust our abilities from a more virtuous disposi- 
tion of our circumstances. 

True generosity is a duty as indispensably necessary 
as those imposed upon us by law. It is a rule impos- 
ed on us by reason, which should be the sovereign law 
of a rational being. But this generosity does not con- 
sist m obeying every impulse of humanity in following- 
blind passion for our guide, and impairing our circum- 
stances by present benefactions, so as to render us in- 
capable of future ones. 

Misers are generally characterized as men without 
honor, or without humanity, who live only to accumu- 
late, and to this passion sacrifice every other happiness. 
They have been described as madmen, who, in the 
midst of abundance, banish every pleasure, and make, 
from imaginary wants, real necessities. But few, very 
few, correspond to this exaggerated picture ; and, per 
haps, there is not one in whom all these circumstances 
are found united. Instead of this, we find the sober 



400 



and the industrious branded by the vain and the idle 
with this odious appellation ; men who, by frugality 
and labor, raise themselves above their equals, and con- 
tribute their share of industry to the common stock. 

Whatever the vain or the ignorant may say, well 
were it for societ}', had we more of these characters 
amongst us. In general, these close men are found at 
last the true benefactors of society. With an avaric- 
ious man we seldom lose in our dealings, but too fre- 
quently in our commerce with prodigality. 

A French priest, whose name was Godinot, went for 
a long time by the name of the Griper. He refused to 
relieve the most apparent wretchedness, and by a skil- 
ful management of his vineyard, had the good fortune 
to acquire immense sums of money. The inhabitants 
of Rhehns, who were his fellow-citizens, detested him ; 
and the populace, who seldom love a miser, wherever 
he went, followed him with shouts of contempt. He 
still, however, continued his former sinrplicity of life, 
his amazing and unremitted frugality. He had long 
perceived the wants of the poor in the city, particular- 
ly in having no water but what they were obliged to 
buy at an advanced price ; wherefore, that whole for- 
tune which he had been amassing, he laid out in an 
aqueduct, by which he did the poor more useful and 
lasting service, than if he had distributed his whole in- 
come in charity every day at his door. 

Among men long conversant with books, we too fre- 
quently find those misplaced virtues, of which I have 
been now complaining. We find the studious animated 
with a strong passion for the great virtues, as they are 
mistakingly called, and utterly forgetful of the ordinary 



ESSAYS. 401 

ones. The declamations of philosophy are generally 
rather exhausted on those supererogatory duties, than 
on such as are indispensably necessary. A man, there- 
fore, who has taken his ideas of mankind from study 
alone, generally comes into the world with a heart 
melting of every fictitious distress. Thus he is in- 
duced, by misplaced liberality, to put himself into the 
indigent circumstances of the person he relieves. 

I shall conclude this paper with the advice of one of 
the ancients, to a young man whom he saw giving away 
all his substance to pretended distress. " It is possible, 
that the person you relieve may be an honest man ; and 
I know that you, who relieve him, are such. You see 
then, by your generosity, that you rob a man who is 
certainly deserving, to bestow it on one who may pos- 
sibly be a rogue ; and, while you are unjust in reward- 
ing uncertain merit, you are doubly guilty by stripping 
yourself." 



ON THE EDUCATION OF YOUTH. 

As few subjects are more interesting to society, so 
few have been more frequently written upon, than the 
education of youth. Yet it is a little surprising that 
It has been treated almost by all in a declamatory man- 
ner. They have insisted largely on the advantages 
chat result from it, both to individuals and to society ; 
and have expatiated in the praise of what none have 
ever been so hardy as to call in question. 

Instead of giving us fine but empty harangues upon 
this subject, instead of indulging each his particular and 
34* " 



402 ESSAYS. 

whimsical systems, it had been much better if the writers 
on this subject had treated it in a more scientific man- 
ner, repressed all the sallies of imagination, and given 
us the result of their observations with didactic sim- 
plicity. Upon this subject, the smallest errors are of 
the most dangerous consequence, and the author should 
venture the imputation of stupidity upon a topic, where 
his slightest deviations may tend to injure the rising 
generation. However, such are the whimsical and 
erroneous productions written upon this subject. Their 
authors have studied to be uncommon, not to be just ; 
and at present, we want a treatise upon education, not 
to tell us anything new, but to explode the errors 
which have been introduced by the admirers of novel- 
ty. It is in this manner books become numerous ; a 
lesire of novelty produces a book, and other books are 
lequired to destroy the former. 

I shall, therefore, throw out a few thoughts upon 
this subject, which, though known, have not been at- 
tended to by others ; and shall dismiss all attempts to 
please, while I study only instruction. 

The manner in which our youth of London are at 
present educated, is, some in free-schools in the city, 
but the greater number in boarding-schools about 
town. The parent justly consults the health of his 
child and finds an education in the country tends to 
promote this, much more than a continuance in town. 
Thus far he is right : if there were a possibility of 
having even our free-schools kept a little out of town, 
it would certainly conduce to the health and vigor of, 
perhaps, the mind as well as the body. It may be 
thought whimsical, but it is truth ; I have found by 



ESSAYS. 403 

experience, that they, who have spent all their lives 
in cities, contract not only an effiminancy of habit, but 
even of thinking. 

But when I have said that the boarding-schools are 
preferable to free-schools, as beiug in the country, this 
is certainly the only advantage I can allow them : 
otherwise it is impossible to conceive the ignorance of 
those who take upon them the important trust of edu- 
cation. Is any man unfit for any of the professions, 
he finds his last resource in setting up a school. Do 
any become bankrupts in trade, they still set up a 
boarding-school, and drive a trade this way, when all 
others fail ; nay, I have been told of butchers and bar- 
bers, who have turned school-masters ; and, more sur- 
prising still, made fortunes in their new profession. 

Could we think ourselves in a country of civilized 
people, could it be conceived that we have any regard 
for posterity, when such are permitted to take the 
charge of the morals, genius, and health, of those dear 
little pledges who may one day be the guardians of the 
liberties of Europe ; and who may serve as the honor 
and bulwark of their aged parents ? The care of our 
children, is it below the state ? Is it fit to indulge the 
caprice of the ignorant with the disposal of their chil- 
dren in this particular ? For the state to take the 
charge of all its children, as in Persia or Sparta, might 
at present be inconvenient ; but surely, with great ease, 
it might cast an eye to their instructors. Of all pro- 
fessions in society, I do not know a more useful, or a 
more honorable one, than a school-master ; at the same 
time that I do not see any more generally despised, or 
whose talents are so ill rewarded. 



404 ESSAYS. 

Were the salaries of schoolmasters to be augmented 
from a diminution of useless sinecures, how might it 
turn to the advantage of this people ! a people whom, 
without flattery, I may, in other respects, term the 
wisest and greatest upon earth. But while I would 
reward the deserving, I would dismiss those utterly 
unqualified for their employment ; in short, I would 
make the business of a schoolmaster every way more 
respectable by increasing their salaries, and admitting 
only men of proper abilities. 

It is true we have schoolmasters appointed, and they 
have some small salaries ; but where at present there 
is only one schoolmaster appointed, there should at 
least be two ; and wherever the salary is at present 
twenty pounds, it should be a hundred. Do we give 
immoderate benefices to those who instruct ourselves, 
and shall we deny even subsistence to those who in- 
struct our children ? Every member of society should 
be paid in proportion as he is necessary ; and I will be 
bold enough to say, that schoolmasters in a state are 
more necessary than clergymen, as children stand in 
more need of instruction than their parents. 

But instead of this, as I have already observed, we 
send them to board in the country, to the most ignor- 
ant set of men that can be imagined. But, lest the 
ignorance of the master be not sufficient, the child is 
generally consigned to the usher. This is commonly 
some poor needy animal, little superior to a footman 
either in learning or spirit, invited to his place by an 
advertisement, and kept there merely from his being 
of a complying disposition, and making the children 
fond of him. ' You give your child to be educated to 




ESSAYS. 405 

a slave,' says a philosopher to a rich man ; k instead of 
one slave you will then have two.' 

It were well, however, if parents upon fixing their 
children in one of these houses, would examine the 
abilities of the usher, as well as the master ; for what- 
ever they are told to the contrary, the usher is gene- 
rally the person most employed in their education. If, 
then, a gentleman, upon putting his son to one of these 
houses, sees the usher disregarded by the master, he 
may depend upon it, that he is equally disregarded by 
the boys ; the truth is, in spite of all their endeavors 
to please, they are generally the laughing-stock of the 
school. Every trick is played upon the usher : the od- 
dity of his manners, his dress, or his language, are a 
fund of external ridicule ; the master himself, now and 
then, cannot avoid joining in the laugh ; and the poor 
wretch, eternally resenting this ill-usage, seems to live 
in a state of war with all the family. This is a very prop- 
er person, is it not, to give children a relish for learn- 
ing ? They must esteem learning very much, when they 
see its professors used with such little ceremony ! If 
the usher be despised, the father may be assured that 
his child will never be properly instructed. 

But let me suppose that there are some schools with- 
out these inconveniences, where the masters and ushers 
are men of learning, reputation, and assiduity. If 
there are to be found such, they cannot be prized in a 
state sufficiently. A boy will learn more true wisdom 
in a public school in a year, than by private education 
in five. It is not from masters, but from their equals, 
youth learn a knowledge of the world ; the little tricks 
they play each other, the punishment that frequently 



406 ESSAYS. 

attends the commission, is a just picture of the great 
world ; and all the ways of men are practised in a pub- 
lic school in miniature. It is true, a child is early 
made acquainted with some vices in a school ; but it is 
better to know these when a boy, than be first taught 
them when a man ; for their novelty then majr have 
irresistible charms. 

In a public education, boys early learn temperance ; 
and if the parents and friends would give them less 
money upon their usual visits, it would be much to 
their advantage ; since it may justly be said, that a 
great part of their disorders arise from surfeit, ' plus 
occidit gula quam gladius.' And now I am come to 
the article of health, it may not be amiss to observe, 
that Mr. Locke and some others have advised that 
children should be inured to cold, to fatigue, and hard- 
ship, from their youth ; but Mr. Locke was but an in- 
different physician. Habit, I grant, has great influ- 
ence over our constitutions ; but we have not precise 
ideas upon this subject. 

We know that among savages, and even among our 
peasants, there are found children born with such con- 
stitutions, that they cross rivers by swimming, endure 
cold, thirst, hunger, and want of sleep, to a surprising- 
degree : that when they happen to fall sick, they are 
cured without the help of medicine, by nature alone. 
Such examples are adduced to persuade us to imitate 
their manner of education, and accustom ourselves be- 
times to support the same fatigues. But had these 
gentlemen considered first how many lives are lost in 
this ascetic practice : had they considered, that those 
savages and peasants are generally not so long lived 



ESSAYS. 407 

as they who have led a more indolent life ; that the 
more laborious the life is, the less populous is the coun- 
try ; and they considered, that what physicians call the 
' stamina vita?,' by fatigue and labor become rigid, and 
thus anticipate old age ; that the number who survive 
those rude trials, bears no proportion to those who die 
in the experiment ; had these things been properly 
considered, they would not have thus extolled an educa- 
tion begun in fatigue and hardships. Peter the Great, 
willing to inure the children of his seamen to a life of 
hardship, ordered that they should only drink sea- 
water ; but they unfortunately all died under the trial. 

But while I would exclude all unnecessary labors, 
yet still I would recommend temperance in the highest 
degree. No luxurious dishes with high seasoning, noth- 
ing given children to force an appetite ; as little sugar- 
ed or salted provisions as possible, though ever so 
pleasing ; but milk, morning and night, should be their 
constant food. This diet would make them more 
healthy than any of those slops that are usually cooked 
by the mistress of a boarding-school : besides, it cor- 
rects any consumptive habits, not unfrecmently found 
amongst the children of city parents. 

As boys should be educated with temperance, so the 
first greatest lesson that should be taught them is to 
admire frugality. It is by the exercise of this virtue 
alone, they can ever expect to be useful members of 
society. It is true, lectures continually repeated upon 
this subject, may make some boys, when they grow up, 
run into an extreme, and become misers ; but it were 
well, had we more misers than we have amongst us. I 
know few characters more useful in society ; for a man's 



408 ESSAYS. 

having a larger or smaller share of money lying use- 
less by him, in no way injures the commonwealth; 
since, should every miser now exhaust his stores, this 
might make gold more plenty, but it would not increase 
the commodities or pleasures of life ; they would still 
remain as they are at present : it matters not, there- 
fore, whether men are misers or not, if they be only 
frugal, laborious, and fill the station they have chos- 
en. If they deny themselves the necessaries of life, 
society is no way injured by their folly. 

Instead, therefore, of romances, which praise young 
men of spirit, who go through a variety of adventures, 
and at last conclude a life of dissipation, folly and ex- 
travagance, in riches and matrimony, there should be 
some men of wit employed to compose books that 
might equally interest the passions of our youth, where 
such a one might be praised for having resisted allure- 
ments when young, and how he, at last, became lord 
mayor ; how he was married to a lady of great sense, 
fortune, and beauty : to be as explicit as possible, the 
old story of Whittington, were his cat left out, might 
be more serviceable to the tender mind, than either 
Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews, or a hundred others, 
where frugality is the only good quality the hero is 
not possessed of. Were our schoolmasters, if any of 
them have sense enough to draw up such a work, thus 
employed, it would be much more serviceable to their 
pupils, than all the grammars and dictionaries they 
may publish these ten years. 

Children should early be instructed in the arts from 
which they may afterwards draw the greatest advan- 
tages. When the wonders of nature are never exposed 



ESSAYS. 409 

to our view, we have no great desire to become ac- 
quainted with, those parts of learning which pretend to 
account for the phenomena. One of the ancients com- 
plains, that as soon as young men have left school, and 
are obliged to converse with the world, they fancy 
themselves transported into a new region. " Ut, cum 
in forum venerint, existhnent se in alimn terrarum or- 
bem delatos." We should early, therefore, instruct 
them in the experiments, if I may so express it, of 
knowledge, and leave to maturer age the accounting 
for the causes. But, instead of that, when boys begin 
natural philosophy in colleges, they have not the least 
curiosity for those parts of the science which are pro- 
posed for their instruction ; they have never before 
seen the phenomena, and consequently have no curios- 
ity to learn the reasons. Might natural philosophy, 
therefore, be made their pastime in school, by this 
means it would in college become their amusement. 

In several of the machines now in use, there would 
be ample field both for instruction and amusement ; 
the different sorts of the phosphorus, the artificial 
pyrites, magnetism, electricity, the experiments upon the 
rarefaction and weight of the air, and those upon elas- 
tic bodies, might employ their idle hours ; and none 
should be called from play to see such experiments 
but such as thought proper. At first, then, it would 
be sufficient if the instruments, and the effects of their 
combination, were only shown ; the causes would be 
deferred to a maturer age, or to those times when nat 
ural curiosity prompts us to discover the wonders of 
nature. Man is placed in this world as a spectator ; 
35 



410 ESSAYS. 

when he is tired of wondering at all the novelties 
about him, and not till then, does he desire to be made 
acquainted with the causes that create those wonders. 

What I have observed with regard to natural phil- 
osophy, I would extend to every other science whatso- 
ever. We should teach them as many of the facts as 
were possible, and defer the causes until they seemed 
of themselves desirous of knowing them. A mind thus 
leaving school, stored with the simple experiences of 
science, would be the fittest in the world for the col- 
lege-course ; and, though such a youth might not ap- 
pear so bright or so talkative, as those who had learn- 
ed the real principles and causes of some of the scien- 
ces, yet he would make a wiser man, and would retain 
a more lasting passion for letters, than he who was 
^arly burdened with the disagreeable institution of ef- 
fect and cause. 

In history, such stories alone should be laid before 
chem as might catch the imagination ; instead of this, 
ihej are too frecfuently obliged to toil through the four 
empires, as they are called, where their memories are 
burdened by a number of disgusting names, that destroy 
all their future relish for our best historians, who may 
De termed the truest teachers of wisdom. 

Every species of flattery should be carefully avoid- 
ed ; a boy who happens to say f: sprightly thing is 
generally applauded so much, that he sometimes con- 
tinues a coxcomb all his life after. He is reputed a 
wit at fourteen, and becomes a blockhead at twenty. 
Nurses, footmen, and such, should therefore be driven 
away as much as possible. I was even going to add, 
that the mother herself should stifle her pleasure or 



ESSAYS. 411 

her vanity, when little master happens to say a good 
or a smart thing. Those modest, lubberly boys, who 
seem to want spirit, generally go through their busi- 
ness with more ease to themselves, and more satisfac- 
tion to their instructors. 

There has, of late, a gentleman appeared, who thinks 
the study of rhetoric essential to a perfect education. 
That bold male eloquence, which often, without pleas- 
ing, convinces, is generally destroyed by such institu- 
tions. Convincing eloquence is infinitely more service- 
able to its possessor, than the most florid harangue, or 
the most pathetic tones, that can be imagined ; and the 
man who is thoroughly convinced himself, who under- 
stands his subject, and the language he speaks in, will 
be more apt to silence opposition, than he who studies 
the force of his periods, and fills our ears with sounds, 
while our minds are destitute of conviction. 

It was reckoned the fault of the orators at the de- 
cline of the Roman empire, when they had been long 
instructed by rhetoricians, that their periods were so 
harmonious, as that they could be sung as well as 
spoken. What a ridiculous figure must one of these 
gentlemen cut, thus measuring syllables, and weighing 
words, when he should plead the cause of his client ! 
Two architects were once candidates for the building a 
certain temple at Athens ; the first harangued the 
crowd very learnedly upon the different orders of archi- 
tecture, and showed them in what manner the temple 
should be built ; the other, who got up after him, only 
observed, that what his brother had spoken, he could 
do ; and thus he at once gained his cause. 

To teach men to be orators, is little less than to teach 
them to be poets ; and for my part I should have too 



412 ESSAYS. 

great a regard for my child, to wish him a manor only in 
a bookseller's shop. 

Another passion which the present age is apt to run 
into is to make children learn all things ; the languages, 
the sciences, music, the exercises, and painting. Thus 
the child soon becomes a talker in all but a master in 
none. He thus accpiires a superficial fondness for every- 
thing, and only shows his ignorance when he attempts to 
exhibit his skill. 

As I deliver my thoughts without method or connec- 
tion, so the reader must not be surprised to find me once 
more addressing schoolmasters on the present method 
of teaching the learned languages, which is commonly 
by literal translations. I would ask such if they were to 
travel a journey, whether those parts of the road in which 
they found the greatest difficulties would not be the most 
strongly remembered ? Boys who, if I may continue the 
allusion, gallop through one of the ancients with the as- 
sistance of a translation, can have but a very slight ac- 
quaintance either with the author or his language. It is 
by the exercise of the mind alone that a language is 
learned; but a literal translation on the opposite page 
leaves no exercise for the memory at all. The boy will 
not be at the fatigue of remembering, when his doubts 
are at once satisfied by a glance of the eye : whereas, 
were every word to be sought from a dictionary, the 
learner would attempt to remember them, to save himself 
the trouble of looking out for them for the future. 

To continue in the same pedantic strain, of all the va- 
rious grammars now taught in the schools about town, I 
would recommend only the old common one. I have forgot 



ESSAYS. 413 

whether Lily's, or an emendation of him. The others 
may be improvements ; but such improvements seem 
to me only mere grammatical niceties, no way influ- 
encing the learner ; but perhaps loading him with sub- 
tilties, which at a proper age he must be at some pains 
to forget. 

Whatever pains a master may take to make the 
learning of the languages agreeable to his pupil, he 
may depend upon it, it will be at first extremely un- 
pleasant. The rudiments of every language, therefore, 
must be given as a task, not as an amusement. At- 
tempting to deceive children into instruction of this 
kind, is only deceiving ourselves ; and I know no pas- 
sion capable of conquering a child's natural laziness 
but fear. Solomon has said it before me ; nor is there 
any more certain, though perhaps more disagreeable 
truth, than the proverb in verse, too well known to re- 
peat on the present occasion. It is very probable that 
parents are told of some masters who never use the 
rod, and consequently are thought the properest in- 
structors for their children ; but, though tenderness is 
a requisite quality in an instructor, yet there is too 
often the truest tenderness in well-timed correction. 

Some have justly observed, that all passions should 
be banished on this terrible occasion ; but I know not 
how, there is a frailty attending human nature that few 
masters are able to keep their temper whilst they cor- 
rect. I knew a good-natured man, who was sensible 
of his own weakness in this respect, and consequently 
had recourse to the following expedient to prevent his 
passions from being engaged, yet at the same time ad- 
minister justice with impartiality. Whenever any of 
35* . 



414 ESSAYS. 

his pupils committed a fault, he summoned a jury of 
his peers, I mean of the boys of his own or the next 
classes to him : his accusers stood forth ; he had liber- 
ty of pleading in his own defence, and one or two more 
aad the liberty of pleading against him ; when found 
guilty by the pannel, he was consigned to the footman, 
who attended in the house, and had previous orders to 
punish, but with lenity. By this means the master 
took off the odium of punishment from himself ; and 
the footman, between whom and the boys there could 
not be even the slightest intimacy, was placed in such 
a light as to be shunned by every boy in the school. 



ON THE VEESATILITY OF POPULAR FAVOR. 

An alehouse-keeper, near Islington, who had long 
lived at the sign of the French King, upon the com- 
mencement of the last war with France, pulled down 
his old sign, and put up that of the Queen of Hungary. 
Under the influence of her red face and golden scep- 
tre, he continued to sell ale, till she was no longer the 
favorite of his customers ; he changed her, therefore, 
some time ago, for the King of Prussia ; who may 
probably be changed in turn, for the next great man 
that shall be set up for vulgar admiration. 

Our publican, in this, imitates the great exactly ; 
who deal out their figures, one after the other, to the 
gazing crowd. When we have sufficiently wondered 
at one, that is taken in, and another exhibited in its 



ESSAYS. 415 

room, which seldom holds its station long ; for the mob 
are ever pleased with variety. 

I must own, I have such an indifferent opinion of the 
vulgar, that I am ever led to suspect that merit which 
raises their shout ; at least, I am certain to find those 
great, and sometimes good men, who find satisfaction 
in such acclamations, made worse by it ; and history 
has too frequently taught me, that the head which has 
grown this day giddy with the roar of the million, has 
the very next been fixed upon a pole. 

As Alexander VI. was entering a little town in the 
neighborhood of Rome, which had been just evacuated 
by the enemy, he perceived the townsmen busy in the 
market place in pulling down from a gibbet a figure 
which had been designed to represent himself. There 
were also some knocking down a neighboring statue of 
one of the Orsinr family, with whom he was at war, in 
order to put Alexander's effigy in its place. It is possi- 
ble a man who knew less of the world would have con- 
demned the adulation of those barefaced flatterers ; but 
Alexander seemed pleased at their zeal, and turning to 
Borgia, his son, said with a smile, " Vides, mi fili, quam 
leve discrimen patibulum inter et statuam : — You see, 
my son, the small difference between a gibbet and a 
statue." If the great could be taught any lesson, this 
might serve to teach them upon how weak a foundation 
their glory stands, which is built upon popular ap- 
plause : for as such praise what seems like merit, they as 
quickly condemn what has only the appearance of guilt. 
. Popular glory is a perfect coquette ; her lovers must 
toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice ; and, 



416 ESSAYS. 

perhaps, at Jast, be jilted into the bargain. True glory, 
on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense : hei 
admirers must play no tricks ; they feel no great anx- 
iety, for they are sure, in the end, of being rewarded 
in proportion to their merit. When Swift used to ap- 
pear in public, he generally had the mob shouting in 
his train, " Pox take these fools," he would say ; "how 
much joy might all this bawling give my lord mayor ! " 

We have seen those virtues which have, while liv- 
ing, retired from the public eye, generally transmitted 
to posterity as the truest objects of admiration and 
praise. Perhaps the character of the late Duke of 
Marlborough may one day be set up, even above that 
of his more talked-of predecessor ; since an assemblage 
of all the mild and amiable virtues are far superior to 
those vulgarly called the great ones. I must be par- 
doned for this short tribute to the memory of a man, 
who, while living, would as much detest to receive any 
thing that wore the appearance of flattery, as I should 
to offer it. 

I know not how to turn so trite a subject out of the 
beaten road of common-place, except by illustrating it 
rather by the assistance of my memory than judgment ; 
and, instead of making reflections, by telling a story. 

A Chinese who had long studied the works of Con- 
fucious, who knew the characters of fourteen thousand 
words, and could read a great part of every book that 
came in his way, once took it into his head to travel into 
Europe, and observe the customs of a people whom he 
thought not very much inferior, even to his own coun- 
trymen, in the arts of refining upon every pleasure. 
Upon his arrival at Amsterdam, his passion for letters 



ESSATS. 417 

naturally led him into a bookseller's shop ; and, as he 
could speak a little Dutch, he civilly asked the booksel- 
ler for the works of the immortal Xixof ou. The book- 
seller assured him he had never heard the book men- 
tioned before. " What ! have you never heard of that 
immortal poet?" returned the other, much surprised, 
"that light of the eyes, that favorite of kings, that 
rose of j)erfection ! I suppose you know nothing of the 
immortal Fipsihihi, second cousin to the moon ? " "No- 
thing at all, indeed, sir," returned the other. "Alas ! " 
cries our traveller, " to what purpose, then, has one of 
these fasted to death, and the other offered himself up as 
a sacrifice to the Tartar enemy, to gain a renown which 
has never travelled beyond the precincts of China ? " 

There is scarce a village in Europe, and not one 
university, that is not thus furnished with its little 
great men. The head of a petty corporation, who op- 
poses the designs of a prince, who would tyrannically 
force his subjects to save their best clothes for Sun- 
days; the puny pedant who finds one undiscovered 
property in the polype, or describes an unheeded pro- 
cess in the skeleton of a mole, and whose mind, like 
his microscope, perceives nature only in detail ; the 
rhymer who makes smooth verses, and paints to our 
imagination, when he should only speak to our hearts : 
all equally fancy themselves walking forward to immor- 
tality, and desire the crowd behind them to look on. The 
crowd takes them at their word. Patriot, philosopher, 
and poet, are shouted in their train. — "Where was 
there ever so much merit seen ? No times so important 
as our own ; ages, yet unborn, shall gaze with wonder 
and applause ! " To such music, the important pigmy 



418 ESSAYS. 

moves forward, bustling and swelling, and aptly com- 
pared to a puddle in a storm. 

I have lived to see generals who once had crowds hal- 
looing after them wherever they went, who were be- 
praised by newspapers and magazines, those echoes of the 
voice of the vulgar, and yet they have long sunk into 
merited obscurity, with scarce even an epitaph left to 
flatter. A few years ago the herring fishery employed 
all Grub-street ; it was the topic in every coffee-house, 
and the burden of every ballad. We were to drag up 
oceans of gold from the bottom of the sea; we were to 
supply all Europe with herrings upon our own terms. 
At present we hear no more of all this. We have fished 
up very little gold, that I can learn; nor do we furnish 
the world with herrings, as was expected. Let us wait 
but a few years longer, and we shall find all our expec- 
tations a herring fishery. 



SPECIMEN OF A MAGAZINE IN MINIATUEE. 

We essayists, who are allowed but one subject at a 
time, are by no means so fortunate as the writers of mag- 
azines, who write upon several. If a magaziner be dull 
upon the Spanish war, he soon has us up again with the 
ghost in Cock-lane ; if the reader begins to doze upon 
that, he is quickly roused by an eastern tale ; tales pre- 
pare us for poetry, and poetry for the meteorological 
history of the weather. It is the life and soul of a mag- 
azine, never to be long dull upon one subject; and the 



ESSAYS. 419 

reader, like the sailor's horse, has at least the comforta- 
ble refreshment of having the spin - often changed. 

As I see no reason why they should carry off all the 
rewards of genius, I have some thoughts, for the future, 
of making this essay a magazine in miniature ; I shall 
hop from subject to subject, and, if properly encouraged, 
T intend in time to adorn my feuille-volant with pictures. 
But to begin, in the usual form, with 

A modest Address to the Public. 

The public has been so often imposed upon by the un- 
performing promises of others, that it is with the utmost 
modesty we assure them of our inviolable design of giving 
the very best collection that ever astonished society. The 
public we honor and regard, and therefore to instruct and 
entertain them is our highest ambition, with labors calcu- 
lated as well to the head as the heart. If four extraordi- 
nary pages of letter-press be any recommendation of our 
wit, we may at least boast the honor of vindicating our 
own abilities. To say more in favor of the Infernal Mag- 
azine, would be unworthy the public ; to say less, would 
bo injurious to ourselves. As we have no interested mo- 
tives for this undertaking, being a society of gentlemen 
of distinction, we disdain to eat or write like hirelings; 
we are all gentlemen, resolved to sell our sixpenny mag- 
azine merely for our own amusement. 

Be careful to ask for the Infernal Magazine. 



420 ESSAYS. 

DEDICATION. 

TO THAT MOST INGENIOUS OP ALL PATRONS, THE 
TEIPOL1NE AMBASSADOR. 

May it please your Excellency, 

As your taste in the fine arts is universally allowed 
and admired, permit the authors of the Infernal Maga- 
zine to lay the following sheets humbly at your excel- 
lency's toe ; and should our labors ever have the hap- 
piness of one day adorning the courts of Fez, we doubt 
not that the influence wherewith we are honored, shall 
be ever retained with the most warm ardor by, 
May it please your Excellency, 

Your most devoted humble servants, 

The Authors of the Infernal Magazine. 



A SPEECH. 

SPOKEN BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER, TO PERSUADE HIS CLUB 
AT CATEATON NOT TO DECLARE WAR AGAINST SPAIN. 

My honest friends and brother jDoliticians, I perceive 
that the intended war with Spain makes many of you 
uneasy. Yesterday, as we were told, the stocks rose, 
and you were glad ; to-day they fall, and you are 
again miserable. But, my dear friends, what is the 
rising or falling of the stocks to us, who have no 
money ? Let Nathan Ben Funk, the Dutch Jew, be 
glad or sorry for this ; but my good Mr. Bellows- 
mender, what is all this to you or me ? You must 
mend broken bellows, and I write bad prose, as long 



ESSAYS. 421 

as we live, whether we like a Spanish war or not. 
Believe me, my honest friends, whatever you may talk 
of liberty and your own reason, both that liberty and 
reason are conditionally resigned by every poor man 
in every society ; and as we were born to work, so 
others are born to watch over us while we are work- 
ing. In the name of common sense then, my good 
friends, let the great keep watch over us, and let us 
mind our business, and perhaps we may at last get 
money ourselves, and set beggars at work in our turn. 
I have a Latin sentence that is worth its weight in 
gold, and which I shall beg leave to translate for your 
instruction. An author, called Lily's Grammar, finely 
observes, that ".ZEs in presenti perfecturn format : " 
that is, "Ready money makes a perfect man." Let us 
then get ready money, and let them that will, spend 
theirs by going to war with Spain. 

RULES FOR BEHAVIOR. 

DRAWN UP BY THE INDIGENT PHILOSOPHER. 

If you be a rich man, you may enter the room with 
three loud hems, march deliberately up to the chimney, 
and turn your back to the fire. If you be a poor man, 
I would advise you to shrink into the room as fast as 
you can, and place yourself, as usual, upon the corner 
of a chair, in a remote corner. 

When you are desired to sing in company, I would 
advise you to refuse ; for it is a thousand to one but 
that you torment us with affectation or a bad voice. 

If you be young, and live with an old man, I would 
advise you not to like gravy. I was disinherited my- 
self for liking gravy. 36 



422 ESSAYS. 

Do not laugh much in public : the spectators that 
are not as merry as you, will hate you, either because 
they envy your happiness, or fancy themselves the 
subject of your mirth. 

RULES FOR RAISING THE DEVIL. 

Translated from the Latin of Danams de Sortiariis, a writer 
contemporary with Calvin, and one of the Reformers of oui 
Church. 

The person who desires to raise the devil, is to sac- 
rifice a dog, a cat, and a hen, all of his own property, 
to Beelzebub. He is to swear an eternal obedience, 
and then to receive a mark in some unseen place, 
either under the eye-lid, or in the roof of the mouth, 
inflicted by the devil himself. Upon this he has power 
given him over three spirits ; one for earth, another 
for air, and a third for the sea. Upon certain times 
the devil holds an assembly of magicians, in which 
each is to give an account of what evil he has done, 
and what he wishes to do. At this assembly he ap- 
pears in the shape of an old man, or often like a goat 
with large horns. They upon this occasion, renew 
their vows of obedience ; and then form a grand dance 
in honor of their false deity. The deity instructs them 
in every method of injuring mankind, in gathering 
poisons, and of riding upon occasion through the air. 
He shows them the whole method, upon examination, 
of giving evasive answers ; his spirits have power to 
assume the form of angels of light, and there is but 
one method of detecting them, viz., to ask them in 
proper form, what method is the most certain to pro- 



ESSAYS. 423 

pagate the faith over all the world ? To this they are 
not permitted by the superior Power to make a false 
reply, nor are they willing to give the true one ; where- 
fore they continue silent, and are thus detected. 

BEAU TIBBS: A CHARACTER. 

Though naturally pensive, yet I am fond of gay 
company, and take every opportunity of thus dismiss- 
ing the mind from duty. From this motive I am of- 
ten found in the centre of a crowd ; and wherever 
pleasure is to be sold, am always a purchaser. In those 
places, without being remarked by any, I join in what- 
ever goes forward, work my passions into a similitude 
of frivolous earnestness, shout as they shout, and con- 
demn as they happen to disapprove. A mind thus 
sunk for a while below its natural standard, is quali- 
fied for stronger flights, as those first retire who would 
spring forward with greater vigor. 

Attracted by the serenity of the evening, a friend 
and I lately went to gaze upon the company in one of 
the public walks near the city. Here we sauntered 
together for some time, either praising the beauty of 
such as were handsome, or the dresses of such as had 
nothing else to recommend them. We had gone thus 
deliberately forward for some time, when my friend, 
stopping on a sudden, caught me by the elbow, and 
led me out of the public walk. I could perceive by 
the quickness of his pace, and by his frequently 
looking behind, that he was attempting to avoid some- 
body who followed : we now turned to the right, then 
to the left : as we went forward, he still went faster, 



424 ESSAYS. 

but in vain : the person whom he attempted to escape, 
hunted us through every doubling, and gained upon us 
each moment ; so that at last we fairly stood still, re- 
solving to face what we could not avoid. 

Our pursuer soon came up, and joined us with all 
the familiarity of an old acquaintance. " My dear 
Charles," cries he, shaking my friend's hand, " where 
have you been hiding this half a century ? Positively, 
I had fancied you had gone down to cultivate matri- 
mony and your estate in the country." During the 
reply, I had an opportunity of surveying the appear- 
ance of our new companion. His hat was pinched up 
with peculiar smartness : his looks were pale, thin, and 
sharp ; round his neck he wore a broad black riband, 
and in his bosom a buckle studded with glass ; his coat 
was trimmed with tarnished twist ; he wore by his side 
a sword with a black hilt ; and his stockings of silk, 
though newly washed, were grown yellow by long ser- 
vice. I was so much engaged with the peculiarity of 
his dress, that I attended only to the latter part of my 
friend's reply ; in which he complimented Mr. Tibbs 
on the taste of his clothes and the bloom in his coun- 
tenance. " Psha, psha, Charles," cries the figure, " no 
more of that if you love me : you know I hate flattery, 
on my soul I do ; and yet, to be sure, an intimacy with 
the great will improve one's appearance, and a course 
of venison will fatten ; and yet, faith, I despise the 
great as much as you do : but there are a great many 
damned honest fellows among them, and we must not 
quarrel with one half because the other wants breed- 
ing. If they were all such as my Lord Mudler, one 



ESSAYS. 425 

of the most good-natured creatures that ever squeezed a 
lemon, I should myself be among the number of their 
admirers. I was yesterday to dine at the Duchess of 
Piccadilly's. My Lord was there. Ned, says he to me, 
Ned, says he, I will hold gold to silver I can tell where 
you were poaching last night. Poaching! my lord, says 
I; faith, you have missed already, for I staid at home 
and let the girls poach for me. That is my way : I take 
a fine woman as some animals do their prey ; stand still, 
and swoop, they fall into my mouth." 

"Ah, Tibbs, thou art a happy fellow," cried my com- 
panion, with looks of infinite pity. " I hope your fortune 
is as much improved as your understanding in such com- 
pany." " Improved ! " replied the other, " you shall know 
— but let it go no farther, — a great secret — five hun- 
dred a year to begin with. — My lord's word of honor for 
it — His lordship took me in his own chariot yesterday, 
and we had a tete-a-tete dinner in the country, where we 
talked of nothing else." "I fancy you forgot, sir," cried 
I, "you told us but this moment of your dining yesterday 
in town? " "Did I say so?" replied he cooly. "To be 
sure, if I said so, it was so. — Dined in town ; egad, now 
I remember, I did dine in town ; but I dined in the coun 
try, too ; for you must know, my boys, I eat two dinners 
By the by, I am grown as nice as the devil in my eating. 
I will tell you a pleasant affair about that : we were a 
select party of us to dine at Lady Grogram's, an affected 
piece, but let it go no farther ; a secret: Well, says I, I 
will hold a thousand guineas, and say Done first, that — 
but, dear Charles, you are an honest creature ; lend me 
half-a-crown for a minute or two, or so, just till — but 
36* 



426 ESSAYS. 

hark'ee, ask me for it the next time we meet, or it may 
be twenty to one but I forget to pay you." 

When he left us, our conversation naturally turned 
upon so extraordinary a character. " His very dress," 
cries my friend, "is not less extraordinary than his con- 
duct. If you meet him this day, you find him in rags; 
if the next, in embroidery. With those persons of dis- 
tinction, of whom he talks so familiarly, he has scarce a 
coffee-house acquaintance. However, both for the inter- 
est of society, and, perhaps, for his own, Heaven has 
made him poor; and while all the world perceives his 
wants, he fancies them concealed from every eye. An 
agreeable companion, because he understands flattery; 
and all must be pleased with the first part of his conver- 
sation, though all are sure of its ending with a demand 
on their purse. While his youth countenances the levity 
of his conduct, he may thus earn a precarious subsist- 
ence; but, when age comes on, the gravity of which is 
incompatible with buffoonery, then will he find himself 
forsaken by all ; condemned in the decline of life to hang 
upon some rich family whom he once despised, there to 
undergo all the ingenuity of studied contempt ; to be em- 
ployed only as a spy upon the servants, or a bugbear to 
fright children into duty." 



BEAU TIBBS — CONTINUED. 

There are some acquaintances whom it is no easy 
matter to shake off. My little beau yesterday overtook 
me again in one of the public walks, and slapping me on 



ESSAYS. 427 

the shoulder, saluted me with an air of the most per- 
fect familiarity. His dress was the same as usual, 
except that he had more powder in his hair, wore a 
dirtier shirt, and had on a pair of Temple spectacles, 
and his hat under his arm. 

As I knew him to be a harmless, amusing little thing, 
I could not return his smiles with any degree of sever- 
ity ; so we walked forward on terms of the utmost in- 
timacy, and in a few minutes discussed all the usual 
topics preliminary to particular conversation. 

The oddities that marked his character, however, soon 
began to appear ; he bowed to several well-dressed per- 
sons, who, by their manner of returning the compliment, 
appeared perfect strangers. At intervals, he drew out 
a pocket-book, seeming to take memorandums before all 
the company with much importance and assiduity. In 
this manner he led me through the length of the whole 
Mall, fretting at his absurdities, and fancying myself 
laughed at as well as him by every spectator. 

When we were got to the end of our procession, "Blast 
me," cries he, with an air of vivacity, "I never saw the 
Park so thin in my life before ; there's no company at all 
to-day. Not a single face to be seen." " No company," 
interrupted I peevishly, "no company where there is 
such a crowd ! Why, man, there is too much. What are 
the thousands that have been laughing at us but com- 
pany?" "Lord, my dear," returned he with the ut- 
most good-humor, " you seem immensely chagrined, but, 
blast me, when the world laughs at me, I laugh at 
the world, and so we are even. My Lord Trip, Bill 
Squash, the Creolian, and I sometimes make a party at 



428 ESSAYS. 

being ridiculous ; and so we say and do a thousand 
things for the joke's sake. But I see you are grave ; 
and if you are for a fine grave sentimental companion, 
you shall dine with my wife to-day ; I must insist on "t ; 
I '11 introduce you to Mrs. Tibbs, a lady of as elegant 
qualifications as any in nature ; she was bred, but that 's 
between ourselves, under the inspection of the countess 
of Shoreditch. A charming body of voice! But no 
more of that — she shall give us a song. You shall 
see my little girl, too, Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia 
Tibbs, a sweet pretty creature ; I design her for my 
Lord Drumstick's eldest son ; but that 's in friendship, 
let it go no farther ; she 's but sis years old, and yet 
she walks a minuet, and plays on the guitar, immense- 
ly, already. I intend she shall be as perfect as possi- 
ble in every acomplishment. In the first place I '11 
make her a scholar ; I '11 teach her Greek myself, and 
I intend to learn that language purposely to instruct 
her, but let that be a secret." 

Thus saying, without waiting for a reply, he took 
me by the arm and hauled me along. We passed 
through many dark alleys, and winding ways ; for, 
from some motives to me unknown, he seemed to have 
a particular aversion to every frequented street; at 
last, however, we got to the door of a dismal-looking 
house in the outlets of the town, where he informed 
me he chose to reside for the benefit of the air. 

We entered the lower door, which seemed ever to 
lie most hospitably open ; and I began to ascend an old 
and creaking staircase ; when, as he mounted to show 
me the way, he demanded, whether I delighted in 
prospects ; to which answering in the affirmative, 



ESSAYS. 429 

"Then," said he, "I shall show you one of the most 
charming out of my windows ; we shall see the ships 
sailing, and the whole country for twenty miles round, 
tip top, quite high. My Lord Swamp would give teu 
thousand guineas for such a one ; but as I sometimes 
pleasantly tell him, I always love to keep my pros- 
pects at home, that my friends may come to see me 
the oftener." 

By this time we were arrived as high as the stairs 
would permit us to ascend, till we came to what he was 
facetiously pleased to call the first floor down the 
chimney ; and, knocking at the door, a voice with a 
Scotch accent from within demanded, " Wha 's there ? " 
My conductor answered that it was he. But this not 
satisfying the querist, the voice again repeated the de- 
mand ; to which he answered louder than before ; and 
now the door was opened by an old maid-servant with 
cautious reluctance. 

When we were got in, he welcomed me to his house 
with great ceremony, and turning to the old woman, 
asked where her lady was. " Good troth." rejDlied 
she, in the northern dialect, " she 's washing your twa 
shirts at the next door, because they have taken an 
oath against lending out the tub any longer." " My 
two shirts ! " cries he, in a tone that faltered with con- 
fusion, w what does the idiot mean ? " — " I ken what I 
mean well enough," replied the other ; " she 's wash- 
ing your twa shirts at the next door, because " 

" Fire and fury, no more of thy stupid explanations," he 
cried. " Gro and inform her we have got company. 
Were that Scotch hag," continued he, turning to me. 



430 ESSAYS. 

" to be forever in my family, she would never learn 
politeness, nor forget that absurd, poisonous accent of 
hers, or testify the smallest specimen of breeding or 
high life ; and yet it is very surprising, too, as I had 
her from a parliament man, a friend of mine, from the 
Highlands, one of the politest men in the world ; but 
that 's a secret." 

"We waited some time for Mrs. Tibb's arrival, during 
which interval I had a full opportunity of surveying 
the chamber and all its furniture ; which consisted of 
four chairs with old wrought bottoms, that he assured 
me were his wife's embroidery ; a square table that 
had been once japanned ; a cradle in one corner, a 
lumber-cabinet in the other ; a broken shepherdess, 
and a mandarine without a head, were stuck over the 
chimney ; and round the walls several paltry unframed 
pictures, which he observed were all of his own draw- 
ing. "What do you think, sir, of that head in the 
corner, done in the manner of Grisoni ? There 's the 
true keeping in it ; it 's my own face ; and, though 
there happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me 
a hundred for its fellow : I refused her, for, hang it, 
that would be mechanical, you know." 

The wife at last made her appearance ; at once a 
slattern and coquette ; much emaciated, but still carry- 
ing the remains of beauty. She made twenty apolo- 
gies for being seen in such an odious dishabille, but 
hoped to be excused, as she had stayed out all night at 
Vauxkall Gardens with the countess, who was exces- 
sively fond of the horns, "And, indeed, my dear, ad- 
ded she, turning to her husband, " his lordship drank 
your health in a bumper." " Poor Jack ! " cries he, 
" a dear, good-natured creature, I know he loves me ; 



ESSAYS. 431 

but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for din- 
ner ; you need make no great preparations neither, 
there are but three of us ; something elegant, and lit- 
tle will do ; a turbo t, an ortolan, or a " " Or what 

do you think, my dear," interrupts the wife, "of a nice 
pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a 
little of my own sauce?" "The very thing," replies 
he ; "it will eat best with some smart bottled beer ; 
but be sure to let's have the sauce his Grace was so 
fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat ; that is 
country all over ; extreme disgusting to those who are 
in the least acquainted with high life." 

By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my 
appetite to increase ; the company of fools may at first 
make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us 
melancholy. I therefore pretended to recollet a prior 
engagement, and after having shown my respects to the 
house, by giving the old servant a piece of money at 
the door, I took my leave ; Mr. Tibbs assuring me, 
that dinner, if I stayed, would be ready at least in less 
than two hours. 



ON THE IEEESOLUTION OF YOUTH. 

As it has been observed that few are better qualified 
to give others advice, than those who have taken the 
least of it themselves ; so in this respect I find myself 
perfectly authorized to offer mine ; and must take leave 
to throw together a few observations upon that part of 
a young man's conduct, on his entering into life, as it 
is called. 

The most usual way among young men who have na 
resolution of their own, is first to ask one friend's ad' 



432 ESSAYS. 

vice, and follow it for some time ; than to ask advice 
of another, and turn to that ; so of a third, still un- 
steady, always changing. However, every change of 
this nature is for the worse ; people may tell you of 
your being unfit for some peculiar occupations in life ; 
but heed them not ; whatever employment you fol- 
low with perseverance and assiduity, will be found fit 
for you ; it will be your support in youth, and com- 
fort in age. In learning the useful part of every pro- 
fession, very moderate abilities will suffice : great abili- 
ties are generally obnoxious to the possessors. Life 
has been compared to a race ; but the allusion still im- 
proves by observing, that the most swift are ever the 
most apt to stray from the course. 

To know one profession only, is enough for one man 
to know ; and this, whatever the professors may tell you 
to the contrary, is soon learned. Be contented, there- 
fore, with one good employment ; for if you understand 
two at a time, people will give you business in neither. 

A conjurer and a tailor once happened to converse 
together. "Alas ! " cries the tailor, " what an unhappy 
poor creature am I ! If people take it into their heads 
to live without clothes, I am undone ; I have no other 
trade to have recourse to." " Indeed, friend, I pity you 
sincerely," replies the conjurer ; ''but, thank Heaven, 
things are not quite so bad with me : for, if one trick 
should fail, I have a hundred tricks more for them yet. 
However, if at any time you are reduced to beggary, ap- 
ply to me, and I will relieve you." A famine overspread 
the land ; the tailor made a shift to live, because his cus- 
tomers could not be without clothes ; but the poor con- 
jurer, with all his hundred tricks, could find none that 



ESSATS. 433 

had money to throw away : it was in vain that he prom- 
ised to eat fire, or to vomit pins ; no single creature 
would relieve him, till he was at last obliged to beg from 
the very tailor whose calling he had formerly despised. 
There are no obstructions more fatal to fortune than 
pride and resentment. If you must resent injuries at all, 
at least suppress your indignation till you become rich, 
and then show away. The resentment of a poor man is 
like the efforts of a harmless insect to sting ; it may get 
him crushed, but cannot defend him. Who values that 
anger which is consumed only in empty menaces ? 

Once upon a time a goose fed its young by a pond-side : 
and a goose, in such circumstances, is always extremely 
proud, and excessively punctilious. If any other animal, 
without the least design to offend, happened to pass that 
way, the goose was immediately at it. The pond, she 
said, was hers, and she would maintain her right in it, 
and support her honor, while she had a bill to hiss, or 
a wing to flutter. In this manner she drove away ducks, 
pig?, and chickens ; nay, even the insidious cat was seen 
to scamper. A lounging mastiff, however, happened to 
pass by, and thought it no harm if he should lap a lit- 
tle of the water, as he was thirsty. The guardian goose 
flew at him like a fury, pecked at him with her beak, 
and slapped him with her feathers. The dog grew ang- 
ry, and had twenty times a mind to give her a sly snap ; 
but suppressing his indignation, because his master was 
aigh, "A pox take thee," cries he, "for a fool; sure, 
'hose who have neither strength nor weapons to fight, 
it least should be civil." So saying, he went forward 
„o the pond, quenched his thirst, in spite of the goose, 
and followed his master. 37 



434 ESSAYS. 

Another obstruction to the fortune of youth is, that 
while they are willing to take offence from none, they 
are also equally desirous of giving nobody offence. From 
hence they endeavor to please all, comply with every 
request, and attempt tc suit themselves to every com- 
pany; have no will of their own, but, like wax, catch 
every contiguous impression. By thus attempting to give 
universal satisfaction, they at last find themselves miser- 
ably disappointed : to bring the generality of admirers 
on our side, it is sufficient to attempt pleasing a very few. 

A painter of eminence was once resolved to finish a 
piece which should please the whole world. When, 
therefore, he had drawn a picture, in which his utmost 
skill was exhausted, it was exposed in the public mar- 
ket-place, with directions at the bottom for every spec- 
tator to mark with a brush, that lay by, every limb 
and feature which seemed erroneous. The spectators 
came, and in the general applauded ; but each, willing 
to show his talen t at criticism, stigmatized whatever he 
thought proper. At evening, when the painter came, 
he was mortified to find the picture one universal blot, 
not a single stroke that had not the marks of disappro- 
bation. Not satisfied with this trial, the next day he 
was resolved to try them in a different manner : and 
exposing his picture as before, desired that every spec- 
tator would mark those beauties he approved or ad- 
mired. The people complied, and the artist returning, 
found his picture covered with the marks of beauty ; 
every stroke that had been yesterday condemned, now 
received the character of approbation. "Well," cries 
the painter, " I now find that the best way to please 
all the world, is to attempt pleasing one half of it." 



ESSAYS. 435 

ON MAD DOGS. 

Indulgent nature seems to have exempted this is- 
land from many of those epidemic evils which are so 
fatal in other parts of the world. A want of rain for a 
few days beyond the expected season in some parts of 
the globe spreads famine, desolation, and terror over 
the whole country ; but in this fortunate island of Bri- 
tain, the inhabitant courts health in every breeze, and 
the husbandman ever sows in joyful expectation. 

But, though the nation be exempt from real evils, it 
is not more happy on this account than others. The 
people are afflicted, it is true, with neither famine nor 
pestilence ; but, then, there is a disorder peculiar to the 
country, which every season makes strange ravages 
among them ; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and 
infects almost every rank of people ; what is still more 
strange, the natives have no name for this peculiar 
malady, though well known to foreign physicians by 
the appellation of Epidemic Terror. A season is never 
known to pass in which the people are not visited by this 
cruel calamity in one shape or another, seemingly 
different though ever the same. One year it issues from 
a baker's shop in the shape of a six-penny loaf, the next 
it takes the appearance of a comet with a fiery tail, the 
third it threatens like a flat-bottomed boat and the 
fourth it carries consternation in the bite of a mad dog. 
The people, when once infected, lose their relish for 
happiness, saunter about with looks of despondence, 
ask after the calamities of the day, and receive no com- 
fort but in heightening each other's distress. It is in- 



436 ESSAYS. 

significant how remote or near, how weak or powerful 
the object of terror may be, when once they resolve to 
fright and be frighted ; the merest trifles sow conster- 
nation and dismay ; each proportions his fears, not to 
the object, but to the dread he discovers in the coun- 
tenance of others ; for, when once the fermentation is 
begun, it goes on of itself, though the original cause be 
discontinued which at first set it in motion. 

A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which 
now prevails, and the whole nation is at present actual- 
ly groaning under the malignity of its influence. The 
people sally from their houses with that circumspection 
which is prudent in such as expect a mad dog at every 
turning. The physician publishes his prescription, the 
beadle prepares his halter, and a few of unusual brav- 
ery arm themselves with boots and buff gloves, in or- 
der to face the enemy, if he should offer to attack them. 
In short, the whole people stand bravely upon their 
defence, and seem, by their present spirit, to show a 
resolution of being tamely bit by mad dogs no longer. 

Their manner of knowing whether a dog be mad or 
no, somewhat resembles the ancient gothic custom of 
trying witches. The old woman suspected was tied 
hand and foot, and thrown into the water. If she swam, 
then she was instantly carried off to be burnt for a 
witch ; if she sunk, then indeed she was acquitted of 
the charge, but drowned in the experiment. In the 
same manner a crowd gather round a dog suspected 
of madness, and they begin by teasing the devoted ani- 
mal on every side. If he attempts to stand on the de- 
&»*isive, and bite, then he is unanimously found guilty, 



ESSAYS. 437 

for •• a mad clog always snaps at everything." If, on 
the contrary, he strives to escape by running away, 
then he can expect no compassion, for "mad dogs al- 
ways run straight forward before them.'' 

It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, 
who have no share in those ideal calamities, to mark 
the stages of this national disease. The terror at first 
feebly enters with a disregarded story of a little dog 
diat had gone through a neighboring village, which 
was thought to be mad by several who had seen him. 
The next account comes, that a mastiff ran through a 
certain town, and bit five geese, which immediately 
ran mad, foamed at the bill, and died in great agonies 
?oon after. Then comes an affecting story of a little 
boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be dipped in the 
salt water. When the people have sufficiently shud- 
dered at that, they are next congealed with a frightful 
account of a man who was said lately to have died 
from a bite he had received some years before. This 
relation only prepares the way for another, still more 
hideous ; as how the master of a family, with seven 
small children, were all bit by a mad lap-dog ; and how 
the poor father first perceived the infection by calling 
for a draught of water, where he saw the lap-dog 
swimming in the cup. 

When epidemic terror is thus once excited, every 
morning comes loaded with some new disaster : as ii? 
stories of ghosts each loves to hear the account, though 
it only serves to make him uneasy ; so here, each lis- 
tens with eagerness, and adds to the tidings with new 
circumstances of peculiar horror. A lady for instance, 
37* 



438 ESSAYS. 

in the country, of very weak nerves, has been frighted 
by the barking of a clog ; and this, alas ! too frequently 
happens. The story soon is improved, and spreads, that 
a mad dog had frighted a lady of distinction. These cir- 
cumstances begin to grow terrible before they have 
reached the neighboring village ; and there the report 
is, that a lady of quality was bit by a mad mastiff. This 
account every moment gathers new strength, and grows 
more dismal as it approaches the capital ; and by the 
time it has arrived in town, the lady is described with 
wild eyes, foaming mouth, running mad upon all fours, 
barking like a clog, biting her servants, and at last 
smothered between two beds by the advice of her doc- 
tors ; while the mad mastiff is, in the mean time, rang- 
ing the whole country over, slavering at the mouth, 
and seeking whom he may devour. 

My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little 
credulous, waked me some mornings ago before the 
usual hour, with horror and astonishment in her looks. 
She desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to 
keep within ; for a few days ago, so dismal an accident 
had happened, as to put all the world upon their guard. 
A mad dog down in the country, she assured me, had 
bit a farmer, who soon becoming mad, ran into his own 
yard and bit a fine brindled cow ; the cow quickly be- 
came as mad as the man, began to foam at the mouth, 
and raising herself up, walked about on her hind legs, 
sometimes barking like a dog, and sometimes attempting 
to talk like the farmer. Upon examining the grounds 
of this story, I found my landlady had it from one 
neighbor, who had it from another neighbor, who heard 
it from very good authority. 



ESSAYS. 439 

Were most stories of this nature well examined, it 
would be found that numbers of such as have been said 
to suffer are in no way injured ; and that of those who 
have been actually bitten, not one in a hundred was bit 
by a mad dog. Such accounts, in general, therefore, only 
serve to make the people miserable by false terrors ; 
and sometimes fright the j>atient into actual frenzy, by 
creating those very symptoms they pretended to deplore. 

But even allowing three or four to die in a season of 
this terrible death (and four is probably too large a con- 
cession), yet still it is not considered how many are pre- 
served in their health and in their property by this de- 
voted animal's services. The midnight robber is kept at a 
distance ; the insidious thief is often detected ; the health- 
ful chase repairs many a worn constitution ; and the poor 
man finds in his dog a willing assistant, eager to lessen 
his toil, and content with the smallest retribution. 

"A dog," says one of the English poets, " is an honest 
creature, and I am a friend to dogs." Of all the beasts 
that graze the lawn, or hunt the forest, a dog is the only 
animal that, leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the 
friendship of man : to man he looks, in all the necessities, 
with speaking eye for assistance ; exerts for him all the 
little service in his power with cheerfulness and pleas- 
ure ; for him bears famine and fatigue with patience and 
resignation ; no injuries can abate his fidelity, no distress 
induce him to forsake his benefactor ; studious to please, 
and fearing to offend, he is still an humble, steadfast de- 
pendant ; and in him alone fawning is not flattery. How 
unkind then to torture this faithful creature, who has 
left the forest to claim the protection of man. How un- 
grateful a return to the trusty animal for all its services. 



440 ESSAYS. 

ON THE INCREASED LOVE OE LIFE WITH AGE. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases 
our desire of living. Those clangers, which, in the vigor 
of youth, we had learned to despise, assume new ter- 
rors as we grow old. Our caution increasing as our 
years increase, fear becomes at last the prevailing pas- 
sion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is 
taken up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or pro- 
vide for a continued existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which 
even the wise are liable ! If I should judge of that 
part of life which lies before me by that which I have 
already seen, the prospect is hideous. Experience tells 
me, that my past enjoyments have brought no real felici- 
ty ; and sensation assures me, that those I have felt are 
stronger than those which are yet to come. Yet exjje- 
rience and sensation in vain persuade ; hope, more pow- 
erful than either, dresses out the distant prospect in 
fancied beauty ; some happiness, in long perspective, 
still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, 
every new disappointment increases my ardor to con- 
tinue the game. 

Whence then is this increased love of life, which 
grows upon us with our years ! Whence comes it, that 
we thus make greater efforts to preserve our existence, 
at a period when it becomes scarce worth the keeping ! 
Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation of man- 
kind, increases our wishes to live, while she lessens 
our enjoyments ; and, as she robs the senses of every 
pleasure, equips imagination in the spoil? Life would 
be insupportable to an old man, who, loaded with in- 



ESSAYS. 441 

firmities, feared death no more than when in the vigor 
of manhood : the numberless calamities of decaying 
nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleas- 
ure, would at once induce him, with his own hand, 
to terminate the scene of misery ; but happily the con- 
tempt of death forsakes him at a time when it could 
only be prejudicial ; and life acquires an imaginary 
value in proportion as its real value is no more. 

Our attachment to every object around us increases, 
in general, from the length of our acquaintance with 
it. "I would not choose," says a French philosopher, 
"to see an old post pulled up with which I had been 
long acquainted." A mind long habituated to a certain 
set of objects, insensibly becomes fond of seeing them ; 
visits them from habit, and parts from them with re- 
luctance : from hence proceeds the avarice of the old 
in every kind of possession ; they love the world and 
all that it produces ; they love life and all its advan- 
tages ; not because it gives them pleasure, but because 
they have known it long. 

Chinvang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, 
commanded that all who were unjustly detained in prf- 
son, during the preceding reigns, should be set free. 
Among the number who came to thank their deliverer 
on this occasion, there appeared a majestic old man, 
who, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as 
follows : " Great father of China, behold a wretch, 
now eighty-five years old, who was shut up in a dun- 
geon at the age of twenty -two. I was imprisoned, 
though a stranger to crime, or without being even con- 
fronted by my accusers. I have now lived in solitude 
and darkness for more than sixty years, and am grown 



442 ESSAYS. 

familiar with distress. As yet dazzled with the splen- 
dor of that sun to which you have restored me, I have 
been wandering the streets to find out some friend that 
would assist, or relieve, or remember me ; but my 
friends, my family, and relations, are all dead, and I 
am forgotten. Permit me then, O Chinvang, to wear, 
out the wretched remains of life in my former prison ; 
the walls of my dungeon are to me more pleasing thau 
the most splendid palace : I have not long to live, and 
shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my days 
where my youth was passed, in that prison from 
whence you were pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to 
that we all have for life. We are habituated to the 
prison ; we look round with discontent, are displeased 
with the abode, and yet the length of our captivity on- 
ly increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we 
have planted, the houses we have built, or the posteri- 
ty we have begotten, all serve to bind us closer to the 
earth, and embitter our parting. Life sues the young 
like a new acquaintance ; the companion, as yet unex- 
hausted, is at once instructive and amusing ; its com- 
pany pleases ; yet, for all this, it is but little regarded. 
To us, who are declined in years, life appears like an 
old friend ; its jests have been anticipated in former con- 
versation ; it has no new story to make us smile, no new 
improvement with which to surprise ; yet still we love it ; 
destitute of every enjoyment, still we love it ; husband 
the wasting treasure with increasing frugality, and feel 
all the poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. 

Sir Philip Mordaunt was young, beautiful, sincere, 



ESSAYS. 443 

brave — an Englishman. He had a complete fortune of 
his own, and the love of the king his master, which was 
equivalent to riches. Life opened all her treasures be- 
fore him, and promised a long succession of future hap- 
piness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was 
disgusted even at the beginning. He professed an aver- 
sion to living ; was tired of walking round the same cir- 
cle ; had tried every enjoyment, and found them all 
grow weaker at every repetition. " If life be, in youth, 
so displeasing," cried he to himself, " what will it ap- 
pear when age comes on ? If it be at present indiffer- 
ent, sure it will then be execrable." This thought im- 
bittered every reflection ; till, at last, with all the se- 
renity of perverted reason, he ended the debate with a 
pistol ! Had this self-deluded man been apprised, that 
existence grows more desirable to us the longer we ex- 
ist, he would then have faced old age without shrink- 
ing ; he would have boldly dared to live ; and serve 
that society, by his future assiduity, which he basely 
injured by his desertion. 



ON THE LADIES' PASSION FOR LEVELLING ALL 
DISTINCTION OF DRESS. 

Foreigners observe that there are no ladies in the 
world more beautiful, or more ill-dressed, than those of 
England. Our country-women have been compared to 
those pictures, where the face is the work of a Raphael, 
but the draperies thrown out by some empty pretender, 
destitute of taste, and entirely unacquainted with design. 

If I were a poet, I might observe, on this occasion 
that so much beauty, set off with all the advantages of 



444 ESSAYS. 

dress, would be too powerful an antagonist for the op- 
posite sex ; and therefore it was wisely ordered that 
our ladies should want taste, lest their admirers should 
entirely want reason. 

But to confess a truth, I do not find they have great- 
er aversion to fine clothes than the women of any other 
country whatsoever. I cannot fancy that a shopkeeper's 
wife in Cheapsicle has a greater tenderness for the for- 
tune of her husband, than a citizen's wife in Paris ; or 
that miss in a boarding-school is more an economist in 
dress than mademoiselle in a nunnery. 

Although Paris may be accounted the soil in which 
almost every fashion takes its rise, its influence is never 
so general there as with us. They study there the hap- 
py method of uniting grace and fashion, and never ex- 
cuse a woman for being awkwardly dressed, by saying 
her clothes are in the mode. A French woman is a per- 
fect architect in dress ; she never, with Gothic ignor- 
ance, mixes the orders ; she never tricks out a squabby 
Doric shape with Corinthian finery ; or, to speak with- 
out metaphor, she conforms to general fashion only 
when it happens not to be repugnant to private beauty. 

The English ladies, on the contrary, seem to have no 
other standard of grace but the run of the town. If 
fashion gives the word, every distinction of beauty, 
complexion, or stature, ceases. Sweeping trains, Prus- 
sian bonnets, and trollopees, as like each other as if cut 
from the same piece, level all to one standard. The 
Mall, the gardens, and playhouses, are filled with ladies 
in uniform ; and their whole appearance shows as little 
variety of taste as if their clothes were bespoke by the 



ESSAYS. 445 

colonel of a marching regiment, or fancied by the art- 
ist who dresses the three battalions of guards. 

But not only the ladies of every shape and complex- 
ion, but of every age, too, are possessed of this unaccount- 
able passion for levelling all distinction in dress. The 
lady of no quality travels first behind the lady of some 
qualit} r ; and a woman of sixty is as gaudy as her grand- 
daughter. A friend of mine, a good-natured old man, 
amused me the other day with an account of his journey 
to the Mall. It seems, in his walk thither, he, for some 
time, followed a lady, who, as he thought,by her dress, was 
a girl of fifteen. It was airy, elegant, and youthful. My 
old friend had called up all his poetry on this occasion, 
and fancied twenty Cupids prepared for execution in 
every folding of her white negligee. He had prepared 
his imagination for an angel's face ; but what was his 
mortification to find that the imaginary goddess was no 
other than his cousin Hannah, some years older than him- 
self. But to give it in his own words : "After the trans- 
ports of our first salute," said he, "were over, I could 
not avoid running my eye over her whole appearance. 
Her gown was of cambric, cut short before, in order to 
discover a high-heeled shoe, which was buckled almost 
at the toe. Her cap consisted of a few bits of cambric, 
and flowers of painted paper stuck on one side of her 
head. Her bosom, that had felt no hand but the hand 
of time these twenty years, rose, suing to be pressed. 
I could, indeed, have wished her more than a handker- 
chief of Paris net to shade her beauties ; for, as Tasso 
says of the rose-bud, ' Quanto si nostra men, tanto e 
piu bella.' A female breast is generally thought the 
most beautiful as it is more sparingly discovered. 
38 



446 ESSAYS. 

As my cousm had not put on all this finery for noth- 
ing, she was at that time sallying out to the Park, where 
I had overtaken her. Perceiving, however, that I had 
on my best wig, she offered, if I would squire her 
there, to send home the footman. Though I trembled 
for our reception in public, yet I could not, with any 
civility, refuse ; so, to be as gallant as possible, I took 
her hand in my arm, and thus we marched on together. 

When we made our entry at the Park, two antiquat- 
ed figures, so polite and so tender, soon attracted the 
eyes of the company. As we made our way among 
crowds who were out to show their finery as well as 
we, wherever we came, I perceived we brought good- 
humor with us. The polite could not forbear smiling, 
and the vulgar burst out into a horse-laugh, at our gro- 
tesque figures. Cousin Hannah, who was perfectly 
conscious of the rectitude of her own appearance, at- 
tributed all this mirth to the oddity of mine ; while I 
as cordially placed the whole to her account. Thus, 
from being two of the best natured creatures alive, be- 
fore we got half way up the Mall, we both began to 
grow peevish, and, like two mice on a string, endeav- 
ored to revenge the impertinence of others upon our- 
selves. ' I am amazed, cousin Jeffrey,' says miss, ' that 
I can never get you to dress like a Christian. I knew 
we should have the eyes of the Park upon us, with your 
great wig so frizzled, and yet so beggarly, and your 
monstrous muff. I hate those odious muffs.' I could 
have patiently borne a criticism on all the rest of my 
equipage ; but as I had always a peculiar veneration 
for my muff, I could not forbear being piqued a little ; 



ESSAYS. 447 

and, throwing my eyes with a spiteful air on her bos- 
om, "I could heartily wish, madam," replied I, "that, 
for your sake, my muff was cut into a tippet." 

As my cousin, by this time, was grown heartily ash- 
amed of her gentleman-usher, and as I was never very 
fond of any kind of exhibition myself, it was mutually 
agreed to retire for a while to one of the seats, and, 
from that retreat, remark on others as freely as they 
had remarked on us. 

When seated, we continued silent for some time, em- 
ployed in very different speculations. I regarded the 
whole company, now passing in review before me, as 
drawn out merely for my amusement. For my enter- 
tainment the beauty had all that morning been improv- 
ing her charms ; the beau had put on lace, and the 
young doctor a big wig, merely to please me. But quite 
different were the sentiments of cousin Hannah ; she 
regarded every well-dressed woman as a victorious 
rival ; hated every face that seemed dressed in good- 
humor, or wore the appearance of greater happiness 
than her own. I perceived her uneasiness, and at- 
tempted to lessen it, by observing that there was no 
company in the Park today. To this she readily as- 
sented ; "And yet," says she, "it is full enough of 
scrubs of one kind or another." My smiling at this 
observation gave her spirits to pursue the bent of her 
inclination, and now she began to exhibit her skill in 
secret history, as she found me disposed to listen. 
" Observe," says she to me, " that old woman in tawdry 
silk, and dressed out beyond the fashion. That is Miss 
Biddy Evergreen. Miss Biddy, it seems, has money ; 
and as she considers that money was never so scarce as 



448 ESSAYS. 

it is now, she seems resolved to keep what she has to 
herself. She is ugly enough, you see ; yet, I assure you, 
she has refused several offers, to my knowledge, with- 
in this twelvemonth. Let me see, three gentlemen from 
Ireland, who study the law, two waiting captains, her' 
doctor, and a Scotch preacher who had liked to have 
carried her off. All her time is passed between sickness 
and finery. Thus she spends the whole week in a close 
chamber, with no other company but her monkey, her 
apothecary, and cat ; and comes dressed out to the Park 
every Sunday, to show her airs, to get new lovers, to 
catch a new cold, and to make new work for the doctor. 

" ' There goes Mrs. Roundabout, I mean the fat lady 
in the lustring trollopee. Between you and I, she is but 
a cutler's wife. See how she's dressed, as fine as hands 
and pins can make her, while her two marriageable 
daughters, like bunters in stuff gowns, are now taking 
six-penny-worth of tea at the White-conduit house. 
Odious puss, how she waddles along, with her train two 
yards behind her ! She puts me in mind of my lord 
Bantam's Indian sheep, which are obliged to have their 
monstrous tails trundled along in a go-cart. For all her 
airs, it goes to her husband's heart to see four yards of 
good lustring wearing against the ground, like one of 
his knives on a grindstone. To speak my mind, cousin 
Jeffery, I never liked those tails ; for suppose a young 
fellow should be rude, and the lady should offer to step 
back in the fright, instead of retiring, she treads upon 
her train, and falls fairly on her back ; and then you 
know, cousin, — her clothes may be spoiled. 

" 'Ah ! Miss Mazzard ! I knew we should not miss 



ESSAYS. 449 

her in the Park ; she in the monstrous Prussiau bonnet. 
Miss, though so very fine, was bred a milliner ; and 
might have had some custom if she had minded her 
business ; but the girl was fond of finery, and, instead 
of dressing her customers, laid out all her goods in 
adorning herself, every new gown she put on impaired 
her credit ; she still, however, went on, improving her 
appearance and lessening her little fortune, and is now, 
you see, become a belle and a bankrupt.' 

" My cousin was proceeding in her remarks, which 
were interrupted by the approach of the very lady she 
had been so freely describing. Miss had perceived her 
at a distance, and approached to salute her. I found by 
the warmth of the two ladies' protestations, that they 
had been long intimate, esteemed friends and acquaint- 
ance. Both were so pleased at this happy rencounter, 
that they were resolved not to part for the day. So 
we all crossed the Park together, and I saw them into 
a hackney-coach at St. James's." 



ASEM; AN EASTERN TALE: 

OR THE WISDOM OF PROVIDENCE IN THE MORAL GOVERNMENT 
OF THE WORLD. 

"Where Tauris lifts his head above the storm, and 
presents nothing to the sight of the distant traveller but 
a propect of nodding rocks, falling torrents, and all the 
variety of tremendous nature ; on the bleak bosom of 
this frightful mountain, secluded from society, and de- 
testing the ways of men, lived Asem, the man-hater. 
38* 



450 ESSAYS. 

Asem had spent his youth with men ; had shared in 
their amusements ; and had been taught to love his fel- 
low-creatures with the most ardent affection ; but, from 
the tenderness of his disposition, he exhausted all his 
fortune in relieving the wants of the distressed. The 
petitioner never sued in vain ; the weary traveller 
never passed his door ; he only desisted from doing 
good when he had no longer the power of relieving. 

From a fortune thus spent in benevolence he expect- 
ed a grateful return from those he had formerly re- 
lieved ; and made his application with confidence of re- 
dress ; the ungrateful world soon grew weary of his 
importunity ; for pity is but a short-lived passion. He 
soon, therefore, began to view mankind in a very dif- 
ferent light from that in which he had before beheld 
them ; he perceived a thousand vices he had never be- 
fore suspected to exist ; wherever he turned ingrati- 
tude, dissimulation, and treachery contributed to in- 
crease his detestation of them. Resolved, therefore, 
to continue no longer in a world which he hated, and 
which repaid his detestation with contempt, he retired 
to this region of sterility, in order to brood over his 
resentment in solitude, and converse with the only 
honest heart he knew ; namely, his own. 

A cave was his only shelter from the inclemency of 
the weather ; fruits, gathered with difficulty from the 
mountain's side, his only food ; and his drink was fetch- 
ed with danger and toil from the headlong torrent. In 
this manner he lived, sequestered from society, passing 
the hours in meditation, and sometimes exulting that 
he was able to live independently of his fellow-creatures. 

At the foot of the mountain an extensive lake dis- 



ESSAYS. 451 

played its glassy bosom, reflecting on its broad surface 
the impending horrors of the mountain. To this capa- 
cious mirror he would sometimes descend, and reclining 
on its steep banks, cast an eager look on the smooth 
expanse that lay before him. " How beautiful," he of- 
ten cried, " is nature ! how lovely, even in her wildest 
scenes ! How finely contrasted is the level plain that 
lies beneath me, with yon awful pile that hides its tre- 
mendous head in clouds ! But the beauty of these 
scenes is no way comparable with their utility ; from 
hence a hundred rivers are supplied, which distribute 
health and verdure to the various countries through 
which they flow. Every part of the universe is beauti- 
ful, just, and wise, but man : vile man is a solecism in 
nature, the only monster in the creation. Tempests 
and whirlwinds have their use ; but vicious, ungrateful 
man is a blot in the fair page of universal beauty. 
Why was I born of that detested species, whose vices 
are almost a reproach to the wisdom of the Divine 
Creator ? Were men entirely free from vice, all would 
be uniformity, harmony, and order. A world of moral 
rectitude should be the result of a perfectly moral 
agent. Why, why, then, O Alia ! must I be thus con- 
fined in darkness, doubt, and despair ? " 

Just as he uttered the word despair, he was going to 
plunge into the lake beneath him, at once to satisfy his 
doubts, and put a period to his anxiety ; when he per- 
ceived a most majestic being walking on the surface of 
the water, and approaching the bank on which he stood. 
So unexpected an object at once checked his purpose ; 
he stopped, contemplated, and fancied he saw some- 
thing awful and divine in his aspect. 



452 ESSAYS. 

" Son of Adam," cried the genius, " stop thy rash 
purpose ; the Father of the Faithful has seen thy jus- 
tice, thy integrity, thy miseries ; and hath sent me to 
afford and administer relief. Give me thine hand, and 
follow without trembling, wherever I shall lead ; in me 
behold the genius of conviction, kept by the great pro- 
phet, to turn from their errors those who go astray, not 
from curiosity, but a rectitude of intention. Follow 
me, and be wise." 

Asem immediately descended upon the lake, and his 
guide conducted him along the surface of the water ; 
till, coming near the centre of the lake, they both be- 
gan to sink; the waters closed over their heads ; they 
descended several hundred fathoms, till Asem, just 
ready to give up his life as inevitably lost, found him- 
self with his celestial guide in another world, at the 
bottom of the waters, where human foot had never trod 
before. His astonishment was beyond description, when 
%'e saw a sun like that he had left, a serene sky over 
his head, and blooming verdure under his feet. 

"I plainly perceive your amazement," said the geni- 
us ; " but suspend it for a while. This world was form- 
ed by Alia, at the request, and under the inspection of 
our great prophet ; who once entertained the same 
doubts which filled your mind when I found you, and 
from the consequence of which you were so lately res- 
cued. The rational inhabitants of this world are form- 
ed agreeable to your own ideas ; they are absolutely 
without vice. In other respects it resembles your earth ; 
but differs from it in being wholly inhabited by men 
who never do wrong. If you find this world more 



ESSAYS. 453 

agreeable than that you so lately left, you have free 
permission to spend the remainder of your days in it; 
but permit me for some time, to attend you, that I may 
silence your doubts, and make you better acquainted 
with your company and your new habitation." 

"A world without vice ! Rational beings without im- 
morality ! " cried Asem, in a rapture ; " I thank thee, 
Alia, who hast at length heard my petitions : this, 
this indeed, will produce happiness, ecstasy, and ease. 
for an immortality, to spend it among men who are 
incapable of ingratitude, injustice, fraud, violence, and 
a thousand other crimes that render society miserable ! " 

" Cease thine acclamations," replied the genius. 
" Look around thee ; reflect on every object and action 
before us, and communicate to me the result of thine 
observations. Lead wherever you think proper, I shall 
be your attendant and instructor." Asem and his com- 
panion travelled on in silence for some time ; the form- 
er being entirely lost in astonishment ; but, at last, re- 
covering his former serenity, he could not help observ- 
ing that the face of the country bore a near resem- 
blance to that he had left, except that this subterrane- 
an world still seemed to retain its primeval wildness. 

" Here," cried Asem, " I perceive animals of prey, 
and others that seem only designed for their subsist- 
ence ; it is the very same in the world over our heads. 
But had I been permitted to instruct our prophet, I 
would have removed this defect, and formed no vora- 
cious or destructive animals, which only prey on the 
other parts of the creation." — " Your tenderness for 
inferior animals, is, I find, remarkable," said the geni- 
us, smiling. " But, with regard to meaner creatures, 



454 ESSAYS. 

this world exactly resembles the other ; and, indeed, for 
obvious reasons : for the earth can support a more con- 
siderable number of animals, by their thus becoming 
food for each other, than if they had lived entirely on 
her vegetable productions. So that animals of differ- 
ent natures thus formed, instead of lessening their mul- 
titudes, subsist in the greatest number possible. But 
let us hasten on to the inhabited country before us, 
and see what that offers for instruction." 

They soon gained the utmost verge of tht, forest, and 
entered the country inhabited by men without vice ; 
and Asem anticipated in idea the rational delight he 
hoped to experience in such an innocent society. But 
they had scarce left the confines of the wood, wheD 
they beheld one of the inhabitants flying with hasty 
steps, and terror in his countenance, from an army of 
squirrels that closely pursued him. " Heavens ! " cried 
Asem, " why does he fly ? What can he fear from ani- 
mals so contemptible ? " He had scarce spoken, when 
he perceived two dogs pursuing another of the human 
species, who, with equal terror and haste, attempted to 
avoid them. " This,' ' cried Asem to his guide, " is 
truly surprising ; nor can I conceive the reason for so 
strange an action." " Every species of animals," re- 
plied the genius, " has of late grown very powerful in 
this country ; for the inhabitants, at first, thinking it 
unjust to use either fraud or force in destroying- them, 
they have insensibly increased, and now frequently 
ravage their harmless frontiers." " But they should 
have been destroyed," cried Asem; "you see the con- 
sequence of such neglect." '' Where is then that ten- 
derness you so lately expressed for subordinate ani- 



ESSAYS. 455 

mals ? " replied the genius, smiling : " you seem to have 
forgot that branch of justice." " I must acknowledge 
my mistake," returned Asem ; " I am now convinced 
that we must be guilty of tyranny and injustice to the 
brute creation, if we would enjoy the world ourselves. 
But let us no longer observe the duty of man to these 
irrational creatures, but survey their connections with 
one another." 

As they walked farther up the country, the more he 
was surprised to see no vestiges of handsome houses, no 
cities, nor any mark of elegant design. His conductor, 
perceiving his surprise, observed that the inhabitants 
of this new world were perfectly content with their an- 
cient simplicity ; each had a house, which, though 
homely, was sufficient to lodge his little family ; they 
were too good to build houses which could only in- 
crease their own pride, and the envy of the spectator; 
what they built was for convenience, and not for show. 
"At least, then," said Asem, " they have neither archi- 
tects, painters, nor statuaries, in their society ; but 
these are the idle arts, and may be spared. However, 
before I spend much more time here, you shall have 
my thanks for introducing me into the society of some 
of their wisest men : there is scarce any pleasure to me 
equal to a refined conversation ; there is nothing of 
which I am so much enamoured as wisdom." "Wis- 
dom ! " replied his instructor : " how ridiculous ! We 
have no wisdom here, for we have no occasion for it ; 
true wisdom is only a knowledge of our own duty, and 
the duty of others to us ; but of what use is such wis- 
dom here ? Each intuitively performs what is right in 
himself, and expects the same from others. If by wis- 



456 ESSAYS. 

do in you should mean vain curiosity, and empty specu- 
lation, as such pleasures have their origin in vanity, 
luxury, or avarice, we are too good to pursue them." 
"All this may be right," says Asem ; "but, methinks I 
observe a solitary disposition prevail among the people ; 
each family keeps separately within their own precincts, 
without society, or without intercourse." " That, in- 
deed is true," replied the other; "here is no establish- 
ed society, nor should there be any : all societies are 
made either through fear or friendship ; the people we 
are among are too good to fear each other ; and there 
are no motives to private friendship, where all are 
equally meritorious." "Well, then," said the sceptic, 
"as I am to spend my time here, if I am to have nei- 
ther the polite arts, nor wisdom, nor friendship, in such 
a world, I should be glad, at least, of an easy compan- 
ion, who may tell me his thoughts, and to whom I may 
communicate mine." "And to what purpose should 
either do this ? " says the genius : " flattery or curiosi- 
ty are vicious motives, and never allowed of here ; and 
wisdom is out of the question." 

" Still, however," said Asem, " the inhabitants must 
be happy ; each is contented with his own possessions, 
nor avariciously endeavors to heap up more than is 
necessary for his own subsistence ; each has therefore 
leisure for pitying those that stand in need of his com- 
passion." He had scarce spoken when his ears were 
assaulted with the lamentations of a wretch who sat 
by the way-side, and, in the most deplorable distress, 
seemed gently to murmur at his own misery. Asem 
immediately ran to his relief, and found him in the last 
stage of a consumption. " Strange," cried the son of 



ESSAYS. 457 

Adam, " that men who are free from vice should thus 
suffer so much misery without relief ! " "Be not sur- 
prised," said the wretch, who was dying ; " would it 
not be the utmost injustice for beings who have only 
just sufficient to support themselves, aud are content 
with a bare subsistence, to take it from their own 
mouths to put it into mine ? They never are possess- 
ed of a single meal more than is necessary ; and what 
is barely necessary cannot be dispensed with." " They 
should have been supplied with more than is necessary," 
cried Asem ; " and yet I contradict my own opinion but 
a moment before : all is doubt, perplexity, and confu- 
sion. Even the want of ingratitude is no virtue here, 
since they never receive a favor. They have, however, 
another excellence yet behind ; the love of their coun- 
try is still, I hope, one of their darling virtues." 
" Peace, Asem," replied the guardian, with a counten- 
ance not less severe than beautiful, " nor forfeit all thy 
pretensions to wisdom ; the same selfish motives by 
which we prefer our own interest to that of others, in- 
duce us to regard our country preferable to that of an- 
other. Nothing less than universal benevolence is free 
from vice, and that you see is practised here." 
" Strange," cries the disappointed pilgrim, in an agony 
of distress ; "what sort of a world am I now introduc- 
ed to ? There is scarce a single virtue, but that of tem- 
perance, which they practise ; and in that they are no 
way superior to the brute creation. There is scarce an 
amusement which they enjoy ; fortitude, liberality, 
friendship, wisdom, conversation, and love of country, 
are all virtues entirely unknown here ; thus it seems, 
that to be unacquainted with vice is not to know virtue. 
39 



458 ESSAYS. 

Take me, my genius, back to that very world which 
I have despised ; a world which has Alia for its con- 
triver, is much more wisely formed than that which has 
been projected by Mohammed. Ingratitude, contempt, 
and hatred, I can now suffer, for perhaps I have de- 
served them. When I arraigned the wisdom of Provi- 
dence, I only showed my own ignorance ; henceforth let 
me keep from vice myself, and pity it in others." 

He had scarce ended, when the genius, assuming an 
air of terrible complacency, called all his thunders 
around him, and vanished in a whirlwind. Asem, as- 
tonished at the terror of the scene, looked for his im- 
aginary world ; when, casting his eyes around, he per- 
ceived himself in the very situation, and the very place, 
where he first began to repine and despair ; his right 
foot had been just advanced to take the fatal plunge, 
nor had it been yet withdrawn ; so instantly did Prov- 
idence strike the series of truths just imprinted on his 
soul. He now departed from the water-side in tran- 
quility, and, leaving his horrid mansion, travelled to 
Segestan, his native city ; where he diligently applied 
himself to commerce, and put in practice that wisdom 
he had learned in solitude. The frugality of a few 
years soon produced opulence ; the number of his do- 
mestics increased ; his friends came to him from every 
part of the city, nor did he receive them with disdain ; 
and a youth of misery was concluded with an old age 
of elegance, affluence, and ease. 



ON THE ENGLISH CLERGY AND POPULAR 
PREACHERS. 

It is allowed on all hands, that our English divines 



ESSAYS. 459 

receive a more liberal education, and improve that edu- 
cation by frequent study, more than any others of this 
reverend profession in Europe. In general, also, it may 
be observed, that a greater degree of gentility is affixed 
to the character of a student in England than else- 
where ; by which means our clergy have an opportuni- 
ty of seeing better company while young, and of soon- 
er wearing off those prejudices which they are apt to 
imbibe even in the best-regulated universities, and which 
may be justly termed the vulgar errors of the wise. 

Yet, with all these advantages, it is very obvious, 
that the clergy are no where so little thought of, by the 
populace, as here ; and, though our divines are foremost . 
with respect to abilities, yet they are found last in the 
effects of their ministry ; the vulgar, in general, appear- 
ing no way impressed with a sense of religious duty. 
I am not for whining at the depravity of the times, or 
for endeavoring to paint a prospect more gloomy than 
in nature ; but certain it is, no person who has travel- 
led will contradict me, when I aver, that the lower or- 
ders of mankind, in other countries, testify, on every 
occasion, the profoundest awe of religion ; while in Eng- 
land they are scarcely awakened into a sense of its du- 
ties, even in circumstances of the greatest distress. 

This dissolute and fearless conduct foreigners are apt 
to attribute to climate and constitution ; may not the 
vulgar being pretty much neglected in our exhortations 
from the pulpit, be a conspiring cause ? Our divines sel- 
dom stoop to their mean capacities ; and they who want 
instruction most, find least in our religious assemblies. 

Whatever may become of the higher orders of man- 
kind, who are generally possessed of collateral motives 



460 ESSAYS. 

to virtue, the vulgar should be particularly regarded, 
whose behavior in civil life is totally hinged upon their 
hopes and fears. Those who constitute the basis of 
the great fabric of society, should be particularly re- 
garded ; for, in policy, as architecture, ruin is most 
fatal when it begins from the bottom. 

Men of real sense and understanding prefer a prud- 
ent mediocrity to a precarious popularity, and, fearing 
to out-do their duty, leave it half done. Their dis- 
courses from the pulpit are generally dry, methodical, 
and unaffecting : delivered with the most insipid calm- 
ness ; insomuch, that should the peaceful preacher lift 
his head over the cushion, which alone he seems to ad- 
dress, he might discover his audience, instead of being 
awakened to remorse, actually sleeping over his me- 
thodical and labored composition. 

This method of preaching is, however, by some called 
an address to reason, and not to the passions ; this is 
styled the making of converts from conviction ; but such 
are indifferently acquainted with human nature, who are 
not sensible that men seldom reason about their de- 
baucheries till they are committed. Reason is but a 
weak antagonist when headlong passion dictates ; in all 
such cases we should arm one passion against another: 
it is with the human mind as in nature ; from the mix- 
ture of two opposites, the result is most frequently neu- 
tral tranquility. Those who attempt to reason us out 
of follies, begin at the wrong end, since the attempt na- 
turally presupposes us capable of reason ; but to be made 
capable of this, is one great point of the cure. 

There are but few talents requisite to become a popu- 
lar preacher ; for the people are easily pleased, if they 



ESSAYS. 461 

perceive any endeavors in the orator to please them . 
the meanest qualifications will work this effect, if the 
preacher sincerely sets about it. Perhaps little, indeed 
very little more is required, than sincerity and assur- 
ance ; and a becoming sincerity is always certain of 
producing a becoming assurance. " Si vis me flere, do- 
lendum est primum tibi ipsi," is so trite a quotation, 
that it almost demands an apology to repeat it; yet 
though all allow the justice of the remark, how few do 
we find put it in practice ! Our orators, with the most 
faulty bashf ulness, seem impressed rather with an awe 
of their audience, than with a just respect for the 
truths they are about to deliver : they, of all profes- 
sions, seem the most bashful, who have the greatest 
right to glory in their commission. 

The French preachers generally assume all that dig- 
nity which becomes men who are ambassadors from 
Christ ; the English divines, like erroneous envoys, 
seem more solicitous not to offend the court to which 
they are sent, than to drive home the interests of their 
employer. The bishop of Massillon, in the first sermon 
he ever preached, found the whole audience, upon his 
getting into the pulpit, in a disposition no way favor- 
able to his intentions ; their nods, whispers, or drowsy 
behavior, showed him that there was no great profit 
to be expected from his sowing in a soil so improper ; 
however, he soon changed the disposition of his audi- 
ence by his manner of beginning. " If," says he, " a 
cause the most important that could be conceived, were 
to be tried at the bar before qualified judges ; if this 
cause interested ourselves in particular ; if the eyes of 
39* 



462 ESSAYS. 

the whole kingdom were fixed upon the event ; if the 
most eminent counsel were employed on both sides ; 
and if we had heard from our infancy of this yet-unde- 
termined trial, — would you not all sit with due atten- 
tion, and warm expectation, to the pleadings on each 
side ? Would not all your hopes and fears be hinged 
on the final decision ? and yet, let me tell you, have 
this moment a cause of much greater importance be- 
fore you ; a cause where not one nation, but all the 
world are spectators ; tried not before a fallible tribu- 
nal, but the awful throne of Heaven ; where not your 
temporal and transitory interests are the subject of de- 
bate, but your eternal happiness or misery ; where the 
cause is still undetermined, but, perhaps, the very mo- 
ment I am speaking may fix the irrevocable decree 
that shall last forever : aud yet, notwithstanding all 
this, you can hardly sit with patience to hear the tid- 
ings of your own salvation ; I plead the cause of Heav- 
en, and yet I am scarcely attended to," etc. 

The style, the abruptness of a beginning like this, in 
the closet would appear absurd ; but in the pulpit it is 
attended with the most lasting impressions : that style 
which, in the closet, might justly be called flimsy, 
«eems the true mode of eloquence here. I never read 
a fine composition under the title of a sermon, that I 
do not think the author has miscalled his piece ; for 
the talents to be used in writing well entirely differ 
from those of speaking well. The qualifications for 
speaking, as has been already observed, are easily ac- 
quired ; they are accomplishments which may be taken 
up by e\ery candidate who will be at the pains of 



ESSAYS. 463 

stooping. Impressed with a sense of the truths he is 
about to deliver, a preacher disregards the applause or 
the contempt of his audience, and he insensibly as- 
sumes a just and manty sincerity. With this talent 
alone we see what crowds are drawn around enthu- 
siasts, even destitute of common sense ; what numbers 
converted to Christianity. Folly may sometimes set an 
example for wisdom to practise ; and our regular di- 
vines may borrow instruction from even Methodists, who 
go their circuits, and preach prizes among the populace. 
Even Whitefield may be placed as a model to some of 
our young divines ; let them join to their own good 
sense his earnest manner of delivery. 

It will be perhaps objected, that by confining the ex- 
cellences of a preacher to proper assurance, earnest- 
ness, and openness of style, I make the qualifications 
too trifling for estimation ; there will be something 
called oratory brought up on this occasion ; action, atti- 
tude, grace, elocution, may be repeated as absolutely 
necessary to complete the character ; but let us not be 
deceived ; common sense is seldom swayed by fine tones, 
musical periods, just attitudes, or the display of a white 
handkerchief ; oratorial behavior, except in very able 
hands indeed, generally sinks into awkward and paltry 
affectation. 

It must be observed, however, that these rules ai'e 
calculated only for him who would instruct the vulgar, 
who stand in most need of instruction ; to address philo- 
sophers, and to obtain the character of a polite preacher 
among the polite — a much more useless, though more 
sought-for character — requires a different method of 
proceeding. All I shall observe on this head is, to en- 



464 



treat the polemic divine, in his controversy with the 
deist, to act rather offensively than to defend ; to push 
home the grounds of his belief, and the impracticability 
of theirs, rather than to spend time in solving the objec- 
tions of every opponent. " It is ten to one," says a late 
writer on the art of war, " but that the assailant who 
attacks the enemy in his trenches is always victorious." 
Yet, upon the whole, our clergy might employ them- 
selves more to the benefit of society, by declining all 
controversy, than by exhibiting even the profoundest 
skill in polemic disputes ; their contests with each other 
often turn on speculative trifles ; and their disputes with 
the deist are almost at an end, since they can have no 
more than victory ; and that they are already possessed 
of, as their antagonists have been driven into a confes- 
sion of the necessity of revelation, or an open avowal of 
atheism. To continue the dispute longer would only en- 
danger it ; the sceptic is very expert at puzzling a de- 
bate which he finds himself unable to continue," and, like 
an Olympic boxer, generally fights best when under- 
most." 



ADVANTAGES TO BE DERIVED EROM SENDING A 
JUDICIOUS TRAVELLER INTO ASIA. 

I have frequently been amazed at the ignorance of 
almost all the European travellers, who have penetrated 
any considerable way eastward into Asia. They have 
all been influenced either by motives of commerce or 
piety, and their accounts are such as might reasonably 
be expected from men of a very narrow or very pre- 
judiced education — the dictates of superstition, or the 
result of ignorance. Is it not surprising, that, of such 



ESSAYS. 465 

A variety of adventures, not one single philosopher 
should be found among the number ? For, as to the 
travels of Gemelli, the learned are long agreed that 
the whole is but an imposture. 

There is scarce any country, how rude or uncultivated 
soever, where the inhabitants are not possessed of some 
peculiar secrets, either in nature or art, which might 
be transplanted with success ; thus, for instance, in 
Siberian Tartary, the natives extract a strong spirit 
from milk, which is a secret probably unknown to the 
chemists in Europe. In the most savage parts of India 
they are possessed of the secret of dying vegetable sub- 
stances scarlet, and likewise that of refining lead into a 
metal, which, for hardness and color, is little inferior 
to silver ; not one of which secrets but would, in Eu- 
rope, make a man's fortune. The power of the Asiatics 
in producing winds, or bringing down rain, the Euro- 
peans are apt to treat as fabulous, because they have no 
instances of the like nature among themselves : but they 
would have treated the secrets of gunpowder, and the 
mariner's compass in the same manner, had they been 
told the Chinese used such arts before the invention 
was common with themselves at home. 

Of all the English philosophers, I most reverence 
Bacon, that great and hardy genius ; he it is, who, un- 
daunted by the seeming difficulties that oppose, prompts 
human curiosity to examine every part of nature ; and 
even exorts man to try whether he cannot subject the 
tempest, the thunder, and even earthquakes, to human 
control. Oh ! had a man of his daring spirit, of his 
genius, penetration, and learning, travelled to those 
countries which have been visited only by the supersti- 



466 ESSAYS. 

tious and mercenary, what might not mankind expect ! 
How would he enlighten the regions to which he travel- 
led ! and what a variety of knowledge and useful im- 
provement would he not bring back in exchange ! 

There is probably no country so barbarous, that 
would not disclose all it knew, if it received equivalent 
information ; and I am apt to think, that a person who 
was ready to give more knowledge than he received, 
would be welcome wherever he came. All his care in 
travelling should only be, to suit his intellectual banquet 
to the people with whom he conversed ; he should not 
attempt to teach the unlettered Tartar astronomy, nor 
yet instruct the polite Chinese in the arts of subsistence ; 
he should endeavor to improve the barbarian in the 
secrets of living comfortably ; and the inhabitants of a 
more refined country, in the speculative pleasures of 
science. How much more nobly would a philosopher, 
thus employed, spend his time, than by sitting at home, 
earnestly intent upon adding one star more to his cata- 
logue, or one monster more to his collection ; or still, 
if possible, more triflingly sedulous, in the incatenation 
of fleas, or the sculpture of cherry-stones. 

I never consider this subject without being surprised 
that none of those societies so laudably established in 
England for the promotion of arts and learning, have 
ever thought of sending one of their members into the 
most eastern parts of Asia, to make what discoveries 
he was able. To be convinced of the utility of such 
an undertaking, let them but read the relations of their 
own travellers. It will there be found, that they are 
as often deceived themselves as they attempt to deceive 



ESSAYS. i67 

others. The merchants tell us, perhaps, ttc price of 
different commodities, the methods of bailing them up, 
and the properest manner for a European to preserve 
his health in the country. The missionary, on the other 
hand, informs us with what pleasure the country to 
which he was sent embraced Christianity, and the num- 
bers he converted ; what methods he took to keep Lent in 
a region where there were no fish,or the shifts he made to 
celebrate the rites of his religion, in places where there 
was neither bread nor wine ; such accounts, with the 
usual appendage of marriages and funerals, inscriptions, 
rivers, and mountains, make up the whole of a Euro- 
pean traveller's diary ; but as to all the secrets of 
which the inhabitants are possessed, those are univer- 
sally attributed to magic ; and when the traveller can 
give no other account of the wonders he sees performed, 
he very contentedly ascribes them to the devil. 

It was a usual observation of Boyle, the English 
chemist, that, if every artist would but discover what 
new observations occurred to him in the exercise of his 
trade, philosophy would thence gain innumerable im- 
provements. It may be observed with still greater 
justice, that, if the useful knowledge of every country, 
howsoever barbarous, was gleaned by a judicious ob 
server, the advantages would be inestimable. Are 
there . not, even in Europe, many useful inventions 
known or practised but in one place ? Their instru- 
ment, as an example, for cutting down corn in Germany, 
is much more handy and expeditious, in my opinion, 
than the sickle used in England. The cheap and ex- 
peditious manner of making vinegar, without previous 



468 ESSAYS. 

fermentation, is known only in a part of France. If 
such discoveries therefore remain still to be known at 
home, what funds of knowledge might not be collected 
in countries yet unexplored, or only passed through by 
ignorant travellers in hasty caravans. 

The caution with which foreigners are received in 
Asia, may be alleged as an objection to such a design. 
But how readily have several European merchants 
found admission into regions the most suspicious, under 
the character of sanjapins, or northern pilgrims ? To 
such not even China itself denies access. 

To send out a traveller properly qualified for these 
purposes, might be an object of national concern ; it 
would, in some measure, repair the breaches made by 
ambition ; and might show that there were still some 
who boasted a greater name than that of patriots, who 
professed themselves lovers of men. 

The only difficulty would remain in choosing a pro- 
per person for so arduous an enterprise. He should be 
a man of philosophical turn ; one apt to deduce conse- 
quences of general utility from particular occurrences ; 
neither swollen with pride, nor hardened by prejudice ; 
neither wedded to one particular system, nor instructed 
only in one particular science ; neither wholly a bo- 
tanist, nor quite an antiquarian, his mind should be 
tinctured with miscellaneous knowledge ; and his man- 
ners humanized by an intercourse with men. He should 
be, in some measure, an enthusiast to the design : fond 
of travelling, from a rapid imagination, and an innate 
love of change : furnished with a body capable of sus- 
taining every fatigue, and a heart not easily terrified at 
danger. 



ESSAYS. 469 

A REVERIE AT THE BOAR'S-HEAD TAVERN, IN 
EASTCHEAP. 

The improvements we make in mental acquirements 
only render us each day more sensible of the defects of 
our constitution : with this in view, therefore, let us 
often recur to the amusements of youth ; endeavor to 
forget age and wisdom, and, as far as innocence goes, 
be as much a boy as the best of them. 

Let idle declaimers mourn over the degeneracy of 
the age, but, in my opinion, every age is the same. 
This I am sure of, that man, in every season, is a poor, 
fretful being, with no other means to escape the calam- 
ities of the times, but by endeavoring to forget them ; 
for, if he attempts to resist, he is certainly undone. If 
I feel poverty and pain, I am not so hardy as to quarrel 
with the executioner, even while under correction ; I 
find myself no way disposed to make fine speeches, 
while I am making wry faces. In a word, let me drink 
when the fit is on, to make me insensible ; and drink 
when it is over, for joy that I feel pain no longer. 

The character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, 
gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts 
of wisdom : I here behold an agreeable old fellow, for- 
getting age, and showing me the way to be young at 
sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though 
not so comical as he. Is it not in my power to have, 
though not so much wit, at least as much vivacity? 
Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone ! — I give you to 
the winds. Let 's have t' other bottle : here 's to the 
memory of Shakspeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men 
of Eastcheap. 

40 



470 ESSAYS. 

Such were the reflections that naturally arose while 
I sat at the Boar's-head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. 
Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old 
Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was 
sometimes honored by Prince Henry, and sometimes 
polluted by his immoral, merry companions, I sat and 
ruminated on the follies of youth ; wished to be young 
again ; but was resolved to make the best of life while 
it lasted, and now and then compared past and present 
times together. I considered myself as the only living 
representative of the old knight ; and transported my 
imagination back to the times when the prince and he 
gave life to the revel, and made even debauchery not 
disgusting. The room also conspired to throw my re- 
flection back into antiquity ; the oak floor, the Gothic 
windows, and the ponderous chimney-piece, had long 
withstood the tooth of time; the watchmen had gone 
twelve ; my companions had all stolen off, and none 
now remained with me but the landlord. From him I 
could have wished to know the history of a tavern that 
had such a long succession of customers ; I could not 
help thinking that an account of this kind would be a 
pleasing contrast of the manners of different ages ; but 
my landlord could give me no information. He con- 
tinued to doze, and sot, and tell a tedious story, as most 
other landlords usually do ; and, though he said nothing, 
yet was never silent ; one good joke followed another 
good joke, and the best joke of all was generally begun 
towards the end of a bottle. I found at last, however, 
his wine and his conversation operate by degrees : he 
insensibly began to alter his aj^pearance. His cravat 



ESSAYS. 471 

seemed quilled into a ruff, and his breeches swelled into 
a fardingale. I now fancied hhn changing sexes ; and, 
as my eyes began to close in slumber, I imagined my 
fat landlord actually converted into as fat a landlady. 
However, sleep made but few changes in my situation ; 
the tavern, the apartment, and the table, continued as 
before ; nothing suffered mutation but my host, who 
was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew 
to be Dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days 
of Sir John ; and the liquor we were chunking, which 
seemed converted into sack and sugar. 

" My dear Mrs. Quickly," cried I, (for I knew her 
perfectly well at first sight), " I am heartily glad to see 
you. How have you left Falstaff, Pistol, and the rest 
of our friends below stairs ? Brave and hearty, I 
hope ? " " In good sooth," replied she, " he did deserve 
to live forever ; but he maketh foul work on 't where 
he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quar- 
relled, for his attempting a rape upon her divinity ; and 
were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, it 
more than seems probable he might have now been 
sprawling in Tartarus." 

I now found that spirits still preserve the frailties of 
the flesh ; and that, according to the laws of criticism 
and dreaming, ghosts have been known to be guilty of 
even more than Platonic affection ; wherefore, as I 
found her too much moved on such a topic to proceed, 
I was resolved to change the subject ; and, desiring she 
would pledge me in a bumper, observed with a sigh, 
that our sack was nothing now to what it was in former 
days. "Ah, Mrs. Quickly, those were merry times 
when you drew sack for Prince Henry ; men were 



472 ESSAYS. 

twice as strong, and twice as wise, and much braver, 
and ten thousand times more charitable, than now. 
Those were the times ! The battle of Agincourt was a 
victory indeed ! Ever since that, we have only been 
degenerating ; and I have lived to see the clay when 
drinking is no longer fashionable. When men wear 
clean shirts, and women show their necks and arms, all 
are degenerated, Mrs. Quickly ; and we shall probably, 
in another century, be frittered away into beaux or mon- 
keys. Had you been on earth to see what I have seen, 
it would congeal all the blood in your body (your soul, 
I mean). Why, our very nobility now have the in- 
tolerable arrogance, in spite of what is every day remon- 
strated from the press ; our very nobility, I say, have 
the assurance to frequent assemblies, and presume to 
"be as merry as the vulgar. See, my very friends have 
scarce manhood enough to sit till eleven ; and I only 
am left to make a night on 't. Pr'ythee do me the 
favor to console me a little for their absence by the 
story of your own adventures, or the history of the 
tavern where we are now sitting. I fancy the narra- 
tive may have something singular." 

" Observe this apartment," interrupted my com- 
panion, "of neat device and excellent workmanship. 
In this room I have lived, child, woman, and ghost, 
more than three hundred years ; I am ordered by Pluto 
to keep an annual register of every transaction that 
passeth here ; and I have whilom compiled three hund- 
red tomes, which eftsoons may be submitted to thy re- 
gards." " None of your whiloms nor eftsoons, Mrs. 
Quickly, if you please," I replied ; " I know you can 
talk every whit as well as I can, for, as you have lived 



ESSAYS. 473 

here 30 long, it is but natural to suppose you should 
learn the conversation of the company. Believe me, 
dame, at best, you have neither too much sense, nor 
too much language, to spare ; so give me both as well 
as you can ; but first, my service to you ; old women 
should water their clay a little now and then ; and now 
to your story," 

" The story of my own adventures," replied the 
vision," is but short and unsatisfactory ; for, believe me, 
Mr. Rigmarole, believe me, a woman with a butt of 
sack at her elbow is never long-lived. Sir John's death 
afflicted me to such a degree, that I sincerely believe, 
to drown sorrow, I drank more liquor myself than I 
drew for my customers ; my grief was sincere, and the 
sack was excellent. The prior of a neighboring con- 
vent (for our priors then had as much power as a Mid- 
dlesex justice now), he, I say, it was who gave me 
license for keeping a disorderly house ; upon conditioD 
that I should never make hard bargains with the clergy ; 
that he should have a bottle of sack every morning, 
and the liberty of confessing which of my girls he 
thought proper in private every night. I had continued 
for several years to pay this tribute ; and he, it must 
be confessed, continued as rigorously to exact it. I 
grew old insensibly ; my customers continued, however, 
to compliment my looks while I was by, but I could 
hear them say I was wearing when my back was turn- 
ed. The prior, however, still was constant, and so 
were half his convent ; but one fatal morning he missed 
the usual beverage, for I had incautiously drunk over- 
night the last bottle myself. What will you have on't ? 
40* 



474 ESSAYS. 

The very next day Doll Tearsheet and I were sent to 
the house of correction, and accused of keeping a low 
bawdy-house. In short, we were so well purified there 
with stripes, mortification, and penance, that we were 
afterward utterly unfit for worldly conversation : though 
sack would have killed me, had I stuck to it, yet I 
soon died for want of a drop of something comfortable, 
and fairly left my body to the care of the beaclle. 

" Such is my own history ; but that of the tavern, 
where I have ever since been stationed, affords greater 
variety. In the history of this, which is one of the 
oldest in London, you may view the different manners, 
pleasures, and follies of men, at different periods. 
You will find mankind neither better nor worse now 
than formerly ; the vices of an uncivilized people are 
generally more detestable, though not so frequent, as 
those in polite society. It is the same luxury which 
formerly stuffed your aldermen with plum-porridge, 
and now crams him with turtle. It is the same low 
ambition that formerly induced a courtier to give up 
his religion to please his king, and now persuades him 
to give up his conscience to please his minister. It is 
the same vanity that formerly stained our ladies' cheeks 
and necks with woad, and now paints them with car- 
mine. Your ancient Briton formerly powdered his 
hair with red earth, like brick-dust, in order to appear 
frightful ; your modern Briton cuts his hair on the 
crown, and plasters it with hogs'-lard and flour ; and 
this to make him look killing. It is the same vanity, 
the same folly, and the same vice, only appearing dif- 
ferent, as viewed through the glass of fashion. In a 
word, all mankind are a " 



ESSAYS. 475 

"Sure the woman is dreaming," interrupted I — 
" None of your reflections, Mrs. Quickly, if you love 
me ; they only give me the spleen. Tell me your his- 
tory at once. I love stories, but hate reasoning." 

" If you please, then, sir," returned my companion, 
" I'll read you an abstract, which I made, of the three 
hundred volumes I mentioned just now : 

" My body was no sooner laid in the dust, than the 
prior and several of his convent came to purify the 
tavern from the pollutions with which they said I had 
filled it. Masses were said in every room, relics were 
exposed upon every piece of furniture, and the whole 
house washed with a deluge of holy water. My habi- 
tation was soon converted into a monastery ; instead of 
customers now applying for sack and sugar, my rooms 
were crowded with images, relics, saints, whores, and 
friars. Instead of being a scene of occasional debau- 
chery, it was now filled with continued lewdness. The 
prior led the fashion, and the whole convent imitated 
his pious example. Matrons came hither to confess 
their sins, and to commit new. Virgins came hither 
who seldom went virgins away. Nor was this a con- 
vent peculiarly wicked ; every convent at that period 
was equally fond of pleasure, and gave a boundless 
loose to appetite. The laws allowed it ; each priest had 
a right to a favorite companion, and a power of discard- 
ing her as often as he pleased. The laity grumbled, 
quarrelled with their wives and daughters, hated their 
confessors, and maintained them in opulence and ease. 
These, these were happy times, Mr. Rigmarole ; these 
were times of piety, bravery, and simplicity ! " — " Not 
so very happy, neither, good madam ; pretty much like 



476 ESSAYS. 

the present ; those that labor, starve ; and those that 
do nothing wear fine clothes and live in luxury." 

" In this manner the fathers lived, for some years, 
without molestation ; they transgressed, confessed them- 
selves to each other, and were forgiven. One evening, 
however, our prior keeping a lady of distinction some- 
what too long at confession, her husband unexpectedly 
came upon them, and testified all the indignation which 
was natural upon such an occasion. The prior assured 
the gentleman that it was the devil who had put it into 
his heart ; and the lady was very certain, that she was 
under the influence of magic, or she could never have 
behaved in so unfaithful a manner. The husband, how- 
ever, was not to be put off by such evasions, but sum- 
moned both before the tribunal of justice. His proofs 
were flagrant, and he expected large damages. Such, 
indeed, he had a right to expect, were the tribunals of 
those days constituted in the same manner as they are 
now. The cause of the priest was to be tried before 
an assembly of priests ; and a layman was to expect re- 
dress only from their impartiality and candor. What 
plea then do you think the prior made to obviate this 
accusation? He denied the fact, and challenged the 
plaintiff to try the merits of their cause by single com- 
bat. It was a little hard, you may be sure, upon the 
poor gentleman, not only to be made a cuckold, but to 
be obliged to fight a duel into the bargain ; yet such was 
the justice of the times. The prior threw down his 
glove, and the injured husband was obliged to take it up, 
in token of his accepting the challenge. Upon this the 
priest supplied his champion, for it was not lawful for 
the clergy to fight ; and the defendant and plaintiff, ao 



ESSAYS. 477 

cording to custom, were put in prison ; both ordered to 
fast and pray, every method being previously used to in- 
duce both to a confession of the truth. After a month's 
imprisonment, the hair of each was cut, their bodies 
anointed with oil, the field of battle appointed, aud 
guarded by soldiers, while his majesty presided over 
the whole in person. Both the champions were sworn 
not to seek victory either by fraud or magic. They 
prayed and confessed upon their knees ; and, after these 
ceremonies, the rest was left to the courage and conduct 
of the combatants. As the champion whom the prior 
had pitched upon, had fought six or eight times upon 
similar occasions, it was no way extraordinary to find 
him victorious in the present combat. In short, the hus- 
band was discomfited ; he was taken from the field of 
battle, stripped to his shirt, and, after one of his legs 
was cut off, as justice ordained in such cases, he was 
hanged as a terror to future offenders. These, these 
were the times, Mr. Rigmarole ! you see how much 
more just, and wise, and valiant, our ancestors were 
than we.'' "I rather fancy, madam, that the times 
then were pretty much like our own ; where a multi- 
plicity of laws give a judge as much jDower as a want 
of law ; since he is ever sure to find among the num- 
ber some to countenance his partiality." 

" Our convent, victorious over their enemies, now 
gave a loose to every demonstration of joy. The lady 
became a nun, the prior was made a bishop, and three 
Wickliffites were burned in the illuminations and fire- 
works that were made on the present occasion. Our 
convent now began to enjoy a very high degree of repiv 



478 ESSAYS. 

tation. There was not one in London that had the 
character of hating heretics so much as ours. Ladies 
of the first distinction chose from our convent their 
confessors ; in short, it flourished, and might have 
flourished to this hour, but for a fatal accident, which 
terminated in its overthrow. The lady whom the prior 
had placed in a nunnery, and whom he continued to 
visit for some time with great punctuality, began at last 
to perceive that she was quite forsaken. Secluded from 
conversation, as usual, she now entertained the visions 
of a devotee ; found herself strangely disturbed ; but 
hesitated in determining, whether she was £>ossessed by 
an angel or a demon. She was not long in suspense ; 
for, upon vomiting a large quantity of crooked pins, and 
finding the palms of her hands turned outwards, she 
quckly concluded that she was possessed by the devil. 
She soon lost entirely the use of speech ; and when she 
seemed to speak, every body that was present perceived 
that her voice was not her own, but that of the devil 
within her. In short, she was bewitched ; and all the 
difficulty lay in determining who it could be that be- 
witched her. The nuns and the monks all demanded 
the magician's name, but the devil made no reply ; for 
he knew they had no authority to ask questions. By 
the rules of witchcraft, when an evil spirit has taken 
possession, he may refuse to answer any questions 
asked him, unless they are put by a bishop, and to 
these he is obliged to reply. A bishop, therefore, was 
sent for, and now the whole secret came out ; the devil 
reluctantly owned that he was a servant of the prior ; 
that by his command he resided in his present habita- 



ESSAYS. 479 

tion; and that, without his command, he was resolved 
to keep in possession. The bishop was an able exor- 
cist ; he drove the devil out by force of mystical arms ; 
the prior was arranged for witchcraft ; the witnesses 
were strong and numerous against him, not less than 
fourteen persons being by who heard the devil speak 
Latin. There was no resisting such a cloud of wit- 
nesses ; the prior was condemned ; and he who had 
assisted at so many burnings, was burned himself in 
turn. These were times, Mr. Rigmarole ; the people of 
those times were not infidels, as now, but sincere believ- 
ers ! " — " Equally faulty with ourselves, they believed 
what the devil was pleased to tell them ; and we seem 
resolved, at last, to believe neither God nor devil." 

" After such a stain upon the convent, it was not to 
be supposed it could subsist any longer ; the fathers were 
ordered to decamp, and the house was once again con- 
verted into a tavern. The king conferred it on one of 
his cast-off mistresses ; she was constituted landlady by 
royal authority ; and, as the tavern was in the neighbor- 
hood of the court, and the mistress a very polite woman, 
it began to have more business than ever, and some- 
times took not less than four shillings a-day. 

" But perhaps you are desirous of knowing what were 
the peculiar qualifications of women of fashion at that 
period ; and in a description of the present landlady, 
you will have a tolerable idea of all the rest. This lady 
was the daughter of a nobleman, and received such an 
education in the country as became her quality, beauty, 
and great expectations. She could make shifts and hose 
for herself and all the servants of the family, when she 



was twelve years old. She knew the names of the four, 
and-twenty letters, so that it was impossible to bewitch 
her, and this was a greater piece of learning than any 
lady in the whole country could pretend to. She was 
always up early, and saw breakfast served in the great 
hall by six o'clock. At this scene of festivity she gener- 
ally improved good-humor, by telling her dreams, relat- 
ing stories of spirits, several of which she herself had 
seen, and one of which she was reported to have killed 
with a black-haf ted knife. From hence she usually went 
to make pastry in the larder, and here she was followed 
by her sweet-hearts, who were much helped on in con- 
versation by struggling with her for kisses. About ten, 
miss generally went to play at hot-cockles and blind- 
man's buff in the parlor ; and when the young folks (for 
they seldom played at hot-cockles when grown old) were 
tired of such amusements, the gentleman entertained 
miss with the history of their greyhounds, bear-baitings, 
and victories at cudgel-playing. If the weather was fine, 
they ran at the ring, or shot at butts, while miss held in 
her hand a riband, with which she adorned the con- 
queror. Her mental qualifications were exactly fitted to 
her external accomplishments. Before she was fifteen 
she could tell the story of Jack the Giant Killer ; could 
name every mountain that was inhabited by fairies ; 
knew a witch at first sight ; and could repeat four Latin 
prayers without a prompter. Her dress was perfectly 
fashionable ; her arms and her hair were completely 
covered ; a monstrous muff was put round her neck, so 
that her head seemed like that of John the Baptist 
placed in a charger. In short, when completely equips 



ESSAYS. 481 

ped, her appearance was so very modest, that she dis- 
covered little more than her nose. These were the 
times, Mr. Rigmarole, when every lady that had a good 
nose might set up for a beauty ; when every woman that 
could tell stories might be cried up for a wit." " I am 
as much displeased at those dresses which conceal too 
much, as at those which discover too much ; I am equal- 
ly an enemy to a female dunce, or a female pedant." 

"You may be sure that miss chose a husband with 
qualifications resembling her own ; she pitched upon a 
courtier equally remarkable for hunting and drinking, 
who had given several proofs of his great virility among 
the daughters of his tenants and domestics. They fell 
in love at first sight (for such was the gallantry of the 
times), were married, came to court, and madam ap-> 
peared with superior qualifications. The king was struck 
with her beauty. All property was at the king's com- 
mand ; the husband was obliged to resign all preten- 
sions in his wife to the sovereign whom God anointed, 
to commit adultery where he thought proper. The king 
loved her for some time ; but, at length, repenting of 
his misdeeds, and instigated by his father confessor, from 
a principle of conscience, removed her from his levee to 
the bar of this tavern, and took a new mistress in hev 
stead. Let it not surprise you to behold the mistress of a 
king degraded to so humble an office. As the ladies had 
no mental accomplishments, a good face was enough to 
raise them to the royal couch ; and she who was this day 
a royal mistress, might the nest, when her beauty pall- 
ed upon enjoyment, be doomed to infamy and want. 

" Under the care of this lady, the tavern grew into 
41 



482 ESSAYS. 

great reputation ; the courtiers had not yet learned to 
game, but they paid it off by drinking ; drunkenness is 
ever the vice of a barbarous, and gaming of a luxurious 
age. They had not such frequent entertainments as the 
moderns have, but were more expensive and more luxu- 
rious in those they had. All their fooleries were more 
elaborate, and more admired by the great and the vul- 
gar, than now. A courtier has been known to spend 
his whole fortune at a single combat ; a king to mort- 
gage his dominions to furnish out the frippery of a tour- 
nament. There were certain days appointed for riot 
and debauchery, and to be sober at such times was re- 
puted a crime. Kings themselves set the example ; and 
I have seen monarchs in this room drunk before the en- 
tertainment was half concluded. These were the times, 
sir, when the kings kept mistresses, and got drunk in 
public ; they were too plain and simple in those happy 
times to hide their vices, and act the hypocrite as now." 
" Lord, Mrs. Quickly ! " interrupting her, " I expected 
to hear a story, and here you are going to tell me I 
know not what of times and vices ; pr'ythee let me en- 
treat thee once more to waive reflections, and give thy 
history without deviation." 

" No lady upon earth," continued my visionary cor- 
respondent, " knew how to put off her damaged wine 
or women with more art than she. When these grew 
flat, or those paltry, it was but changing their names ; 
the wine became excellent, and the girls agreeable. She 
was also possessed of the engaging leer, the chuck under 
the chin, winked at a double entendre, could nick the 
opportunity of calling for something comfortable, and 



ESSAYS. 483 

perfectly understood the distinct moments when to with- 
draw. The gallants of those times pretty much re- 
sembled the bloods of ours ; they were fond of pleasure, 
but quite ignorant of the art of refining upon it ; thus a 
court-bawd of those times resembled the common, low- 
lived harridan of a modern bagnio. Witness, ye powers 
of debauchery ! how often have I been present at the 
various appearances of drunkenness, riot, guilt, and 
brutality. A tavern is a true picture of human infirm- 
ity ; in history we find only one side of the age exhi- 
bited to our view ; but in the accounts of a tavern we 
see every age equally absurd and equally vicious. 

"Upon this lady's decease, the tavern was success- 
ively occupied by adventurers, bullies, pimps, and game- 
sters. Towards the conclusion of the reign of Henry 
VII. gaming was more universally practised in England 
than even now. Kings themselves have been known 
to play off, at primero, not only all the money and jewels 
they could part with, but the very images in churches. 
The last Henry played away, in this very room, not 
only the four great bells of St. Paul's cathedral, but the 
fine image of St. Paul, which stood upon the top of the 
spire, to Sir Miles Partridge, who took them down the 
next day, and sold them by auction. Have you then 
any cause to regret being born in the times you now 
live in, or do you still believe that human nature con- 
tinues to run on declining every age ? If we observe 
the actions of the busy part of mankind, your ancestors 
will be found infinitely more gross, servile, and even 
dishonest, than you. If, forsaking history, we only 
trace them in their hours of amusement and dissipation, 
we shall find them more sensual, more entirely devoted 
to pleasure, and infinitely more selfish. 



484 ESSAYS. 

" The last hostess of note I find upon record was 
Jane Rouse. She was born among the lower ranks of 
the people ; and by frugality and extreme complaisance, 
contrived to acquire a moderate fortune ; this she might 
have enjoyed for many years, had she not unfortu- 
nately quarrelled with one of her neighbors, a woman 
who was in high repute for sanctity through the whole 
parish. In the times of which I speak, two women 
seldom quarrelled that one did not accuse the other of 
witchcraft, and she who first contrived to vomit crooked 
pins was sure to come off victorious. The scandal of a 
modern tea-table differs widely from the scandal of 
former times ; the fascination of a lady's eyes, at pre- 
sent, is regarded as a compliment ; but if a lady former- 
ly should be accused of having witchcraft in her eyes, 
it were much better, both for her soul and body, that 
she had no eyes at all. 

"In short, Jane Rouse was accused of witchcraft, 
and though she made the best defence she could, it was 
all to no purpose ; she was taken from her own bar to 
the bar of the Old Bailey, condemned, and executed 
accordingly. These were times, indeed ! when even 
women could not scold in safety. 

" Since her time the tavern underwent several revo- 
lutions, according to the spirit of the times, or to the 
disposition of the reigning monarch. It was this day a 
brothel, and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. It 
was one year noted for harboring whigs, and the next 
infamous for a retreat to tories. Some years ago it 
was in high vogue, but at present it seems declining. 
This only may be remarked in general, that whenever 
taverns flourish most, the times are then most extra va- 



ESSAYS. 480 

gant and luxurious." " Lord, Mrs. Quickly ! " inter- 
rupted I, " you have really deceived me ; I expected a 
romance, and here you have been this half-hour giving 
me only a description of the spirit of the times ; if you 
have nothing but tedious remarks to communicate, seek 
some other hearer ; I am determined to hearken only 
to stories." 

I had scarce concluded, when my eyes and ears seem- 
ed opened to my landlord, who had been all this while 
giving me an account of the repairs he had made in 
the house, and was now got into the story of the crack- 
ed glass in the dining-room. 



ON QUACK DOCTORS. 

Whatever may be the merits of the English in 
other sciences, they seem peculiarly excellent in the 
art of healing. There is scarcely a disorder incident 
to humanity, against which our advertising doctors are 
not possessed with a most infallible antidote. The pro- 
fessors of other arts confess the inevitable intricacy of 
things ; talk with doubt, and decide with hesitation ; but 
doubting is entirely unknown in medicine : the adver- 
tising professors here delight in cases of difficulty ; be 
the disorder ever so desperate or radical, you will find 
numbers in every street, who, by levelling a pill at the 
part affected, promise a certain cure without loss of time, 
knowledge of a bedfellow, or hinderance of business. 

When I consider the assiduity of this profession, 
their benevolence amazes me. They not only, in gene- 
ral, give their medicines for half value, but use the 
most persuasive remonstrances to induce the sick to 

come and be cured. Sure there must be something 
41* 



486 ESSAYS. 

strangely obstinate in an English jDatient who refuses 
so much health upon such easy terms ! Does he take 
a pride in being bloated with a dropsy ? does he find 
pleasure in the alternations of an intermittent fever ? 
or feel as much satisfaction in nursing up his gout, as 
he found pleasure in acquiring it ? He must ; other- 
wise he would never reject such repeated assurances of 
instant relief. "What can be more convincing than the 
manner in which the sick are invited to be well ? The 
doctor first begs the most earnest attention of the public 
to what he is going to propose ; he solemnly affirms the 
pill was never found to want success ; he produces a 
list of those who have been rescued from the grave by 
taking it. Yet, notwithstanding all this, there are many 
here who now and then think proper to be sick : — only 
sick, did I say ? there are some who even think proper 
to die ! Yes, by the head of Confucius, they die ! 
though they might have purchased the health-restoring 
specific for half-a-crown at every corner. 

I can never enough admire the sagacity of this coun- 
try for the encouragement given to the professors of 
this art ; with what indulgence does she foster up those 
of her own growth, and kindly cherish those that come 
from abroad ! Like a skillful gardener, she invites 
them from every foreign climate to herself. Here 
every great exotic strikes root as soon as imported, and 
feels the genial beam of favor ; while the mighty metro- 
polis, like one vast munificent dunghill, receives them 
indiscriminately to her breast, and supplies each with 
more than native nourishment. 

In other countries the physician pretends to cure dis- 



ESSAYS. 487 

orders in the lump ; the same doctor who combats the 
gout in the toe, shall pretend to prescribe for a pain in 
the head ; and he who at one time cures a consumption, 
shall at another give drugs for a dropsy. How absurd 
and ridiculous ! this is being a mere jack of all trades. 
Is the animal machine less complicated than a brass 
pin ? Not less than ten different hands are required to 
make a brass pin ; and shall the body be set right by 
one single operator ? 

The English are sensible of the force of this reason- 
ing, they have therefore one doctor for the eyes, another 
for the toes ; they have their sciatica doctors, and in- 
oculating doctors ; they have one doctor, who is modest- 
ly content with securing them from bug bites, and five 
hundred who prescribe for the bite of mad dogs. 

But as nothing pleases curiosity more than anecdotes 
•of the great, however minute or trifling, I must present 
you, inadequate as my abilities are to the subject, with 
an account of one or two of those personages who lead 
in this honorable profession. 

The first upon the list of glory is Doctor Richard 
Rock, F. U. N. This great man is short of stature, is 
fat, and waddles as he walks. He always wears a white 
three-tailed wig, nicely combed, and frizzled upon each 
cheek. Sometimes he carries a cane, but a hat never ; 
it is indeed very remarkable that this extraordinary 
personage should never wear a hat ; but so it is, a hat 
he never wears. He is usually drawn, at the top of 
his own bills, sitting in his arm-chair, holding a little 
bottle between his finger and thumb, and surrounded 
with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and gallipots. 



48S ESSAYS. 

No man can promise fairer or better than he ; for, as 
he observes, " Be your disorder never so far gone, be 
under no uneasiness, make yourself quite easy, I can 
cure you." 

The next in fame, though by some reckoned of equal 
pretensions, is Dr. Timothy Franks, F. 0. G. H. living 
in the Old Bailey. As Rock is remarkably squab, his 
great rival Franks is as remarkably tall. He was born 
in the year of the Christian era 1692, and is, while I 
now write, exactly sixty-eight years three months and 
four days old. Age, however, has no ways impaired 
his usual health and vivacity ; I am told he generally 
walks with his breast open. This gentleman, who is 
of a mixed reputation, is particularly remarkable for a 
becoming assurance, which carries him gently through 
life ; fox*, except Dr. Rock, none are more blessed with 
the advantages of face than Dr. Franks. 

And yet the great have their foibles as well as the 
little. I am almost ashamed to mention it. Let the 
foibles of the great rest in peace. Yet I must impart 
the whole. These two great men are actually at vari- 
ance ; like mere men, mere common mortals. Rock 
advises the world to beware of bog-trotting quacks : 
Franks retorts the wit and sarcasm, by fixing on his rival 
the odious ajDpellation of Dumpling Dick. He calls the 
serious Doctor Rock, Dumpling Dick ! Head of Con- 
fucius, what profanation ! Dumpling Dick ! "What a 
pity, ye powers, that the learned, who were born mut- 
ually to assist in enlightening the world, should thus 
differ among themselves, and make even the profession 
ridiculous ! Sure the world is wide enough, at least. 



ESSAYS. 489 

for two great personages to figure in : men of science 
shoukl leave controversy to the little world below them ; 
and then we mio-ht see Rock and Franks walking 
together hand in hand, smiling onward to immortality. 



ADVENTURES OF A STROLLING PLAYER. 

I am fond of amusement, in whatever company it is 
to be found ; and wit, though dressed in rags, is ever 
pleasing to me. I went some days ago to take a walk 
in St. James's Park, about the hour in which company 
leave it to go to dinner. There were but few in the walks, 
and those who stayed seemed by their looks rather more- 
willing to forget that they had an appetite, than gain 
one. I sat down on one of the benches, at the other 
end of which was seated a man in very shabby clothes. 

"We continued to groan, to hem, and to cough, as 
usual upon such occasions ; and, at last, ventured upon 
conversation. " I beg pardon, sir," cried I, " but I 
think I have seen you before ; your face is familiar to 
me." " Yes, sir," replied he, " I have a good familiar 
face, as my friends tell me. I am as well known in every 
town in England as the dromedary, or live crocodile. 
You must understand, sir, that I have been these six- 
teen years merry-andrew to a puppet-show ; last Bartho- 
lomew fair my master and I quarrelled, beat each other, 
and parted ; be to sell his puppets to the pincushion-mak- 
ers in Rosemary-lane,and I to starve in St. James's Park. 

" I am sorry, sir, that a person of your appearance 
should labor under any difficulties." " O, sir," returned 
he, " my appearance is very much at your service ; but, 
though I cannot boast of eating much, yet there are few 



490 ESSAYS. 

that are merrier ; if I had twenty thousand a year I 
should be very merry ; and, thank the Fates, though not 
worth a groat, I am very merry still. If I have three- 
pence in my pocket, I never refuse to be my three half- 
pence ; and, if I have no money, I never scorn to be 
treated by any that are kind enough to pay the reckon- 
ing. What think you, sir, of a steak and a tankard ! 
You shall treat me now, and I will treat you again 
when I find you in the Park in love with eating, and 
without money te pay for a dinner." 

As I never refuse a small expense for the sake of a 
merry companion, we instantly adjourned to a neigh- 
boring ale-house, and, in a few moments, had a froth- 
ing tankard, and a smoking steak, spread on the table 
before us. It is impossible to express how much the 
sight of such good cheer improved my companion's 
vivacity. "I like this dinner, sir," says he, "for three 
reasons ; first, because I am naturally fond of beef ; 
secondly, because I am hungry ; and, thirdly and lastly, 
because I get it for nothing ; no meat eats so sweet as 
that for which we do not pay." 

' He therefore now fell to, and his apjDetite seemed to 
correspond with his inclination. After dinner was over, 
he observed that the steak was tough ; " and yet, sir," 
returns he, " bad as it was, it seemed a rump-steak to 
me. O the delights of poverty and a good appetite ! 
We beggars are the very fondlings of Nature ; the rich 
she treats like an arrant step-mother ; they are pleased 
with nothing ; cut a steak from what part you will, and 
it is insupportably tough ; dress it up with pickles, and 
even pickles cannot procure them an appetite. But the 



ESSAYS. 491 

whole creation is filled with good things for the beggar ; 
Calvert's butt out-tastes champagne, and Sedgeley's 
home-brewed excels tokay. Joy, joy, my blood ; though 
our estates lie no where, we have fortunes wherever we 
go. If an inundation sweeps away half the grounds in 
Cornwall, I am content ; I have no lands there ; if the 
stocks sink, that gives me no uneasiness ; I am no Jew." 
The fellow's vivacity, joined to his poverty, I own, raised 
my curiosity to know something of his life and circum- 
stances ; and I entreated that he would indulge my de- 
sire. " That I will," said he, " and welcome ; only let 
us drink, to prevent our sleeping ; let us have another 
tankard, while we are awake ; let us have another tank- 
ard ; for, ah, how charming a tankard looks when full ! 
" You must know, then, that I am very well descend- 
ed ; my ancestors have made some noise in the world, 
for my mother cried oysters, and my father beat a drum ; 
I am told we have even had some trumpeters in our 
family. Many a nobleman cannot show so respectful 
a genealogy ; but that is neither here nor there. As I 
was their only child, my father designed to breed me 
up to his own einjdoyment, which was that of a drum- 
mer to a puppet-show. Thus the whole employment of 
my younger years was that of interior eter to Punch and 
King Solomon in all his glory. But, though my father 
was very fond of instructing me in beating all the 
marches and points of war, I made no very great pro- 
gress, because I naturally had no ear for music ; so at 
the age of fifteen, I went and listed for a soldier. As I 
had ever hated beating a drum, so I soon found that I 
disliked carrying a musket also ; neither the one trade 
nor the other was to my taste, for I was by nature fond 



492 ESSAYS. 

of being a gentleman ; besides, I was obliged to obey 
my captain ; he has his will, I have mine, and you have 
yours ; now I very reasonably concluded, that it was 
much more comfortable for a man to obey his own will 
than another's. 

The life of a soldier soon therefore gave me the 
spleen ; I asked leave to quit the service ; but, as I was 
tall and strong, my captain thanked me for my kind in- 
tention, and said, because he had a regard for me we 
should not part. I wrote to my father a very dismal, 
penitent letter, and desired that he would raise money 
to j>ay for my discharge ; but the good man was as fond 
of drinking as I was (sir, my service to you), and those 
who are fond of drinking never pay for other people's 
discharges ; in short, he never answered my letter. 
What could be done ? If I have not money, said I to 
myself, to pay for my discharge, I must find an equiva- 
lent some other way ; and that must be by running 
away. I deserted, and that answered my purpose every 
bit as well as if I had bought my discharge. 

" Well, I was now fairly rid of my military employ- 
ment, I sold my soldier's clothes, bought worse, and in 
order not to be overtaken, took the most unfrequented 
roads possible. One evening, as I was entering a vil- 
lage, I perceived a man, whom I afterward found to be 
the curate of the parish, thrown from his horse in a 
miry road, and almost smothered in the mud. He desir- 
ed my assistance ; I gave it, and drew him out with some 
difficulty. He thanked me for my trouble and was 
going off ; but I followed him home, for I loved always 
to have a man thank me at his own door. The curate 
asked a hundred questions ; as, whose son I was ; from 



ESSAYS. 493 

whence I came, and. whether I would be faithful. I 
answered him greatly to his satisfaction, and gave my- 
self one of the best characters in the world for sobriety 
(sir, I have the honor of drinking your health), discre- 
tion, and fidelity. To make a long story short, he 
wanted a servant, and hired me. "With him I lived 
but two months ; we did not much like each other ; I 
was fond of eating, and he gave me but little to eat ; I 
loved a pretty girl, and the old woman, my fellow-ser- 
vant, was ill-natured and ugly. As they endeavored to 
starve me between them, I made a pious resolution to 
prevent their committing murder ; I stole the eggs as 
soon as they were laid ; I emptied every unfinished 
bottle that I could lay my hands on ; whatever eatable 
came in my way was sure to disappear ; in short, they 
found I would not do ; so I was discharged one morn- 
ing, and paid three shillings and sixpence for two months' 
wages. 

" While my money was getting ready, I employed 
myself in making preparations for my deparUire ; two 
hens were hatching in an out-house ; I went and took 
the eggs from habit, and, not to separate the i:>arents 
from the children, I lodged hens and all in my knap- 
sack. After this piece of frugality, I returned to re- 
ceive my money, and, with my knapsack on my back 
and a staff in my hand, I bid adieu, with tears in my 
eyes, to my old benefactor. I had not gone far from 
the house, when I heard behind me the cry of " Stop 
thief ! " but this only increased my despatch ; it would 
have been foolish for me to stop, as I knew the voice 
could not be levelled at me. But hold, I think I passed 
42 



494 ESSAYS. 

those two months at the curate's without drinking ; 
come, the times are dry, and may this be my poison if 
ever I spent two more pious, stupid months in all my life. 

" Well, after travelling some days, whom should I 
light upon but a company of strolling players ? The 
moment I saw them at a distance, my heart warmed to 
them ; I had a sort of natural love for every thing of 
the vagabond order ; they were employed in settling 
their baggage which had been overturned in a narrow 
way ; I offered my assistance, which they accepted ; and 
we soon became so well acquainted, that they took me as 
a servant. This was a paradise to me ; they sung, danced, 
drank, ate, and travelled, all at the same time. By the 
blood of the Mirables, I thought I had never lived till 
then ; I grew as merry as a grig, and laughed at every 
word that was spoken. They liked me as much as I 
liked them ; I was a very good figure, as you see ; and, 
though I was poor, I was not modest. 

" I love a straggling life above all things in the 
world ; sometimes good, sometimes bad ; to be warm to- 
day and cold to-morrow ; to eat when one can get it, 
and drink when (the tankard is out) it stands before 
me. We arrived that evening at Tenterden, and took 
a large room at the Greyhound, where we resolved to 
exhibit Romeo and Juliet, with the funeral procession, 
the grave, and the garden scene. Romeo was to be per- 
formed by a gentleman from the theatre royal in Drury- 
lane ; Juliet, by a lady who had never appeared on any 
stage before ; and I was to snuff the candles ; all ex- 
cellent in our way. We had figures enough, but the 
difficulty was to dress them. The same coat that serv- 



ESSAYS. 495 

ed Romeo, turned with the blue lining outwards, served 
for his friend Mercutio ; a large piece of crape sufficed 
at once for Juliet's petticoat and pall ; a pestle and 
mortar, from a neighboring apothecary's, answered all 
the purposes of a bell ; and our landlord's own family, 
wrapped in white sheets, served to fill up the proces- 
sion. In short, there were but three figures among us 
that might be said to be dressed with any propriety ; I 
mean the nurse, the starved apothecary, and myself. 
Our performance gave universal satisfaction ; the whole 
audience were enchanted with our powers. 

" There is one rule by which a strolling player may 
be ever secure of success ; that is, in our theatrical way 
of expressing it, to make a great deal of the character. 
To speak and act as in common life, is not playing, nor 
is it what people come to see ; natural speaking, like 
sweet wine, runs glibly over the palate, and scarce 
leaves any taste behind it ; but being high in a part re- 
sembles vinegar, which grates upon the taste, and one 
feels it while he is drinking. To please in town or 
country, the way is, cry, wring, cringe in attitudes, 
mark the emphasis, slap the pockets, and labor like one 
in the falling sickness ; that is the way to work for ap- 
plause ; that is the way to gain it. 

" As we received much reputation for our skill on 
this first exhibition, it was but natural for me to ascribe 
part of the success to myself ; I snuffed the candles ; 
and, let me tell you that, without a candle-snuffer, the 
piece would lose half its embellishments. In this manner 
we continued a fortnight, and drew tolerable houses ; 
but the evening before our intended departure, we gave 



496 . ESSAYS. 

out our very best piece, in which all our strength was to 
be exerted. We had great expectations from this, and 
even doubled our prices, when, behold ! one of the prin- 
cipal actors fell ill of a violent fever. This was a stroke 
like thunder to our little company ; they resolved to go, 
in a body, to scold the man for falling sick at so incon- 
venient a time, and that too of a disorder that threat- 
ened to be expensive. I seized the moment, and offered 
to act the part myself in his stead. The case was des- 
perate ; they accepted my offer ; and I accordingly sat 
down with the part in my hand, and a tankard before 
me (sir, your health), and studied the character, which 
was to be rehearsed the next day, and played. soon after. 
"I found my memory excessively helped by drink- 
ing ; I learned my part with astonishing rapidity, and 
bid adieu to snuffing candles ever after. I found that 
Nature had designed me for more noble employments, 
and I was resolved to take her when in humor. We 
got together in order to rehearse, and I informed my 
companions, masters now no longer, of the surprising 
change I felt within me. Let the sick man, said I, be 
under no uneasiness to get well again ; I '11 fill his place 
to universal satisfaction ; he may even die, if he thinks 
proper ; I '11 engage that he shall never be missed. I 
rehearsed before them, strutted, ranted, and received ap- 
plause. They soon gave out that a new actor of emin- 
ence was to appear, and immediately all the genteel 
places were bespoke. Before I ascended the stage, 
however, I concluded within myself, that, as I brought 
money to the house, I ought to have my share in the 
profits. Gentlemen (said I, addressing our company), 



ESSAYS. 497 

I do n't pretend to direct you ; far be it from me to 
treat you with so much ingratitude ; you have published 
my name in the bills with the utmost good-nature ; and, 
as affairs stand, cannot act without me ; so, gentlemen, 
to show you my gratitude, I expect to be paid for my 
acting as much as any of you, otherwise I declare off ; 
I '11 brandish my snuffers and clip candles as usual. 
This was a very disagreeable proposal, but they found 
that it was impossible to refuse it; it was irresistible, it 
was adamant ; they consented, and I went on in king 
Bajazet ; my frowning brows bound with a stocking 
stuffed into a turban, while on my captived arms I 
brandished a jack-chain. Nature seemed to have fitted 
me for the part ; I was tall, and had a loud voice ; my 
very entrance excited universal applause ; I looked 
round on the audience with a smile, and made a most 
low and graceful bow, for that is the rule among us. 
As it was a very passionate part, I invigorated my 
spirits with three full glasses (the tankard is almost 
out) of brandy. By Alia ! it is almost inconceivable 
how I went through it. Tamerlane was but a fool to me ; 
though he was sometimes loud enough too, yet I was 
still louder than he ; but then, besides, I had attitudes 
in abundance ; in general, I kept my arms folded up 
thus upon the pit of my stomach ; it is the way at 
Drury-lane, and has always a fine effect. The tankard 
would sink to the bottom before I could get through 
the whole of my merits ; in short, I came off like a 
prodigy ; and, such was my success, that I could ravish 
the laurels even from a surloin of beef. The principal 
gentlemen and ladies of the town came to me, after the 
42* 



498 ESSAYS. 

play was over, to compliment me on my success ; one 
praised my voice, another my person ; ' Upon my word,' 
says th* 1 squire's lady, ' he will make one of the finest 
actors in Europe ; I say it, and I think I am something 
of a judge.' Praise in the beginning is agreeable 
enough, and we receive it as a favor ; but when it comes 
in great quantities we regard it only as a debt, which 
nothing but our merit could extort ; instead of thank- 
ing them, I internally applauded myself. We were 
desired to give our piece a second time ; we obeyed, and 
I was applauded even more than before. 

" At last we left the town, in order to be at a horse- 
race some distance from thence. I shall never think of 
Tenterclen without tears of gratitude and respect. The 
ladies and gentlemen there, take my word for it, are 
very good judges of plays and actors. Come, let us 
drink their healths, if you please, sir. We quitted the 
town, I say, and there was a wide difference between 
my coming in and going out ; I entered the town a can- 
dle-snuffer, and I quitted it a hero ! Such is the world 
— little to-day, and great to-morrow. I could say a 
great deal more upon that subject, something truly sub- 
lime, upon the ups and downs of fortune ; but it would 
give us both the spleen, and so I shall pass it over. 

" The races were ended before we arrived at the next 
town, which was no small disappointment to our com- 
pany ; however, we were resolved to take all we could 
get ; I played capital characters there too, and came off 
with my usual brilliancy. I sincerely believe I should 
have been the first actor in Europe, had my growing 
merit been properly cultivated ; but there came an un- 



ESSAYS. 499 

kindly frost which nipped ine in the bud, and levelled 
me once more down to the common standard of human- 
ity. I played Sir Harry Wlldair ; all the country ladies 
were charmed ; if I but drew out my snuff-box, the 
whole house was in a roar of rapture ; when I exercised 
my cudgel, I thought they would have fallen into con- 
vulsions. 

" There was here a lady, who had received an educa- 
tion of nine months in London, and this gave her pre- 
tensions to taste, which rendered her the indisputable 
mistress of the ceremonies wherever she came. She 
was informed of my merits ; everybody praised me ; 
yet she refused at first going to see me perform ; she 
could not conceive, she said, anything but stuff from a 
stroller ; talked something in praise of Garrick, and 
amazed the ladies with her skill in enunciations, tones, 
and cadences. She was at last, however, prevailed upon 
to go ; and it was privately intimated to me what a judge 
was to be present at my next exhibition ; however, no 
way intimidated, I came on in Sir Harry, one hand 
stuck in my breeches, and the other in my bosom, as 
usual at Drury-lane ; but, instead of looking at me, I 
perceived the whole audience had their eyes turned upon 
the lady who had been nine months in London ; from 
her they expected the dicision which was to secure the 
general's truncheon in my hands, or sink me down into 
a theatrical letter-carrier. I opened my snuff-box, took 
snuff ; the lady was solemn, and so were the rest. I 
broke my cudgel on Alderman Smuggler's back ; still 
gloomy, melancholy all ; the lady groaned and shrugged 
her shoulders. I attempted, by laughing myself, to 
excite at least a smile ; but the devil a cheek could I 



500 ESSAYS. 

perceive wrinkle into sympathy. I found it would 
not do ; all my good-humor now became forced ; my 
laughter was converted into hysteric grinning ; and 
while I pretended spirits, my eyes showed the agony 
of my heart ! In short, the lady came with an inten- 
tion to be displeased, and displeased she was ; my fame 
expired : — I am here, and the tankard is no 



RULES ENJOINED TO BE OBSERVED AT A RUS- 
SIAN ASSEMBLY. 

When Catharina Alexowna was made Empress of 
Russia the women were in an actual state of bondage ; 
but she undertook to introduce mixed assemblies, as in 
other parts of Europe ; she altered the women's dress 
by substituting the fashions of England ; instead of furs 
she brought in the use of taffeta and damask ; and cor- 
nets and commodes instead of caps of sable. The 
women now found themselves no longer shut up in 
separate apartments, but saw company, visited each 
other, and were present at every entertainment. 

But as the laws to this effect were directed to a 
savage people, it is amusing enough to see the manner 
in which the ordinances ran. Assemblies were quite 
unknown among them ; the czarina was satisfied with 
introducing them, for she found it impossible to render 
them polite. An ordinance was therefore published 
according to their notions of breeding, which, as it is a 
curiosity, and has never been before printed that we 
know of, we shall give our readers. 

I. The person at whose house the assembly is to be 
kept shall signify the same by hanging out a bill, or by 



ESSAYS. 501 

giving some other public notice, by way of advertise- 
ment, to persons of both sexes. 

II. The assembly shall not be open sooner than four 
or five o'clock in the afternoon, nor continue longer 
than ten at night. 

III. The master of the house shall not be obliged to 
meet his guests, or conduct them out, or keep them 
company ; but though he is exempt from all this, he is 
to find them chairs, candles, liquors, and all other 
necessaries that company may ask for ; he is likewise 
to provide them with cards, dice, and every necessary 
for gaming. 

IV. There shall be no fixed hour for coming or 
going away ; it is enough for a person to appear in the 
assembly. 

V. Every one shall be free to sit, walk, or game, as 
he pleases ; nor shall any one go about to hinder him, 
or take exception at what he does, upon pain of empty- 
ing the great eagle (a pint bowl full of brandy) ; it shall 
likewise be sufficient, at entering or retiring, to salute 
the company. 

VI. Persons of distinction, noblemen, superior offi- 
cers, merchants, and tradesmen of note, head-workmen, 
especially carpenters, and persons employed in chan- 
cery, are to have liberty to enter the assemblies ; as 
likewise their wives and children. 

VII. A particular place shall be assigned the foot- 
men, except those of the house, that there may be room 
enough in the apartments designed for the assembly. 

VIII. No ladies are to get drunk upon any pretence 
whatsoever, nor shall gentlemen be drunk before nine. 

IX. Ladies who play at forfeitures, questions, and 
commands, etc., shall not be riotous ; no gentleman shall 
attempt to force a kiss, and no person shall offer to 
strike a woman in the assembly, under pain of future 
exclusion. 

Such are the statutes upon this occasion, which, in 



502 ESSAYS. 

their very appearance carry an air of ridicule and sa- 
tire. But politeness must enter every country by de- 
grees ; and these rules resemble the breeding of a 
clown, awkward but sincere. 



THE GENIUS OF LOVE. 

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. 

The formalities, delays, and disappointments, that 
precede a treaty of marriage here, are usually as numer- 
ous as those previous to a treaty of £>eace. The laws 
of this country are finely calculated to promote all 
commerce, but the commerce between the sexes. Their 
encouragements for propagating hemp, madder, and 
tobacco, are indeed admirable ! Marriages are the only 
commodity that meets with none. 

Yet, from the vernal softness of the air, the verdure 
of the fields, the transparency of the streams, and the 
beauty of the women, I know few countries more pro- 
per to invite to courtship. Here Love might sport 
among painted lawns and warbling groves, and revel 
amidst gales, wafting at once both fragrance and har- 
mony. Yet it seems he has forsaken the island ; and 
when a couple are now to be married, mutual love, or 
a union of minds, is the last and most trifling consider- 
ation. If their goods and chattels can be brought to 
unite, their sympathetic souls are ever ready to guar- 
antee the treaty. The gentleman's mortgaged lawn 
becomes enamored of the lady's marriageable grove ; 
the match is struck up, and both parties are piously in 
love — according to act of parliament. 

Thus they who have a fortune, are possessed at least 



ESSAYS. 503 

of something that is lovely ; but I actually pity those 
that have none. I am told there was a time when 
ladies, with no other merit but youth, virtue, and 
beauty, had a chance for husbands, at least among the 
ministers of the church, or the officers of the army. 
The blush and innocence of sixteen was said to have a 
powerful influence over these two professions ; but of 
late, all the little traffic of blushing, ogling, dimpling, 
and smiling, has been forbidden by an act in that case 
wisely made and provided. A lady's whole cargo of 
smiles, sighs, and whispers, is declared utterly contra- 
band, till she arrives in the warm latitude of twenty- 
two, where commodities of this nature are found too 
often to decay. She is then permitted to dimple and 
smile, when the dimples and smiles begin to forsake 
her ; and when perhaps, grown ugly, is charitably in- 
trusted with an unlimited use of her charms. Her 
lovers, however, by this time, have forsaken her ; the 
captain has changed for another mistress ; the priest 
himself leaves her in solitude to bewail her virginity, 
and she dies even without benefit of clergy. 

Thus you find the Europeans discouraging love with 
as much earnestness as the rudest savage of Sofala. 
The Genius is surely now no more. In every region 
I find enemies in arms to oppress him. Avarice in 
Europe, jealousy in Persia, ceremony in China, poverty 
among the Tartars, and lust in Circassia, are all pre- 
pared to oppose his power. The Genius is certainly 
banished from earth, though once adored under such 
a variety of forms. He is no where to be found ; and 
all that the ladies of each country can produce, are but 



504 ESSAYS. 

a few trifling relics, as instances of his former resi& 
ence and favor. 

" The Genius of Love," says the Eastern apologue, 
" had long resided in the happy plains of Abra, where 
every breeze was health, and every sound produced 
tranquility. His temple at first was crowded, but every 
age lessened the number of his votaries, or cooled their 
devotion. Perceiving, therefore, his altars at length 
quite deserted, he was resolved to remove to some more 
propitious region ; and he apprized the fair sex of every 
country, where he could hope for a proper reception, 
to assert their right to his presence among them. In 
return to this proclamation, embassies were sent from 
the ladies of every part of the world to invite him, and 
to display the superiority of their claims. 

" And, first, the beauties of China appeared. No 
country could compare with them for modesty, either 
of look, dress or behavior ; their eyes were never lifted 
from the ground ; their robes, of the most beautiful 
silk, hid their hands, bosom, and neck, while their faces 
only were left uncovered. They indulged no airs that 
might express loose desire, and they seemed to study 
only the graces of inanimate beauty. Their black teeth 
and plucked eye-brows were, however, alleged by the 
genius against them, but he set them entirely aside 
when he came to examine their little feet. 

" The beauties of Circassia next made their appear- 
ance. They advanced, hand in hand, singing the most 
immodest airs, and leading up a dance in the most luxu- 
rious attitudes. Their dress was but half a covering ; 
the neck, the left breast, and all the limbs, were ex- 



505 



posed to view, which, after some time, seemed rather 
to satiate, than inflame desire. The lily and the rose 
contended in forming their complexions ; and a soft 
sleepiness of eye added irresistible poignance to their 
charms ; but their beauties were obtruded, not offered 
to their admirers ; they seemed to give, rather than 
receive courtship ; and the genius of love dismissed 
them, as unworthy his regard, since they exchanged 
the duties of love, and made themselves not the pur- 
sued, but the pursuing sex. 

" The kingdom of Kashmire next produced its charm- 
ing deputies. This happy region seemed peculiarly 
sequestered by nature for his abode. Shady mountains 
fenced it on one side from the scorching sun ; and sea- 
borne breezes, on the other, gave peculiar luxuriance 
to the air. Their complexions were of a bright yellow, 
that appeared almost transparent, while the crimson 
tulip seemed to blossom on then cheeks. Their fea- 
tures and limbs were delicate, beyond the statuary's 
power to express ; and their teeth whiter than their 
own ivory. He was almost persuaded to reside among 
them, when unfortunately one of the ladies talked of 
appointing his seraglio. 

" In this procession the naked inhabitants of Southern 
America would not be left behind ; their charms were 
found to surpass whatever the warmest imagination 
could conceive ; and served to show, that beauty could 
be perfect, even with the seeming disadvantage of a 
brown complexion. But their savage education rend- 
ered them utterly unqualified to make the proper use 
of their power, and they were rejected as being incapa- 
43 



506 ESSAYS. 

ble of uniting mental with sensual satisfaction. In this 
manner the deputies of other kingdoms had their suits 
rejected ; the black beauties of Benin, and the tawny 
daughters of Borneo ; the women of Wida with scarred 
faces, and the hideous virgins of Caffraria ; the squab 
ladies of Lapland, three feet high, and the giant fair 
ones of Patagonia. 

" The beauties of Europe at last appeared ; grace 
was in their steps, and sensibility sat smiling in every 
eye. It was the universal ojDinion, while they were ap- 
proaching, that they would prevail ; and the genius 
seemed to lend them his most favorable attention. 
They opened their pretensions with the utmost modesty ; 
but unfortunately, as their orator proceeded, she hap- 
pened to let fall the words, house in town, settlement, 
and pin-money. These seemingly harmless terms had 
instantly a surprising effect ; the genius, with ungovern- 
able rage, burst from amidst the circle ; and, waving his 
youthful pinions, left this earth, and flew back to those 
ethereal mansions from whence he descended. 

" The whole assembly was struck with amazement, 
they now justly apprehended that female power would 
be no more, since Love had now forsaken them. 
They continued some time thus in a state of torpid 
despair, when it was proposed by one of the num- 
oer, that, since the real Genius of Love had left 
them, in order to continue their power, they should 
set up an idol in his stead ; and that the ladies of 
every country should furnish him with what each 
liked best. This proposal was instantly relished 
and agreed to. An idol of gold was formed by 



507 



nniting the capricious gifts of all the assembly, though no 
way resembling the departed genius. The ladies of 
China furnished the monster with wings; those of Kash- 
mire supplied him with horns; the dames of Europe 
clapped a purse in his hand ; and the virgins of Congo 
furnished him with a tail. Since that time all the vows 
addressed to Love are in reality paid to the idol; and, as 
in other false religions, the adoration seems more fervent 
where the heart is least sincere." 



HISTORY OF THE DISTRESSES OF AN ENGLISH 
DISABLED SOLDIER. 

No observation is more common, and at the same time 
more true, than that " one half of the world is ignorant 
how the other half lives." The misfortunes of the great 
are held up to engage our attention; are enlarged upon 
in tones of declamation ; and the world is called upon to 
gaze at the noble sufferers ; the great, under the pressure 
of calamity, are conscious of several others sympathizing 
with their distress ; and have, at once, the comfort of 
admiration and pity. 

There is nothing magnanimous in bearing misfortunes 
with fortitude when the whole world is looking on : men 
in such circumstances will act bravely even from motives 
of vanity ; but he who, in the vale of obscurity, can brave 
adversity, who, without friends to encourage, acquaintan- 
ces to pity, or even without hope to alleviate his misfor- 
tunes, can behave with tranquility and indifference, is 
truly great ; whether peasant or courtier, he deserves ad- 



508 



miration, and should be held up for our imitation and 
respect. 

While the slightest inconveniences of the great are 
magnified into calamities ; while tragedy mouths out their 
sufferings in all the strains of eloquence — the miseries 
of the poor are entirely disregarded ; and yet some of the 
lower ranks of people undergo more real hardships in one 
day, than those of a more exalted station suffer in their 
whole lives. It is inconceivable what difficulties the 
meanest of our common sailors and soldiers endure with- 
out murmuring or regret; without passionately declaim- 
ing against Providence, or calling on their fellows to be 
gazers on their intrepidity. Every day is to them a day 
of misery, and yet they entertain then.' hard fate without 
repining. 

With what indignation do I hear an Ovid, a Cicero, 
or a Rabutin, complain of their misfortunes and hardships 
whose greatest calamity was that of being unable to visit 
a certain spot of earth, to which they had foolishly 
attached an idea of happiness! Their distresses were 
pleasures compared to what many of the adventuring 
poor every day endure without murmuring. They ate, 
drank, and slept: they had slaves to attend them, and 
were sure of subsistence for life ; while many of their 
fellow-creatures are obliged to wander without a friend 
to comfort or assist them, and even without a shelter 
from the severity of the season. 

I have been led into these reflections from accidentally 
meeting, some days ago, a poor fellow, whom I knew 
when a boy, dressed in a sailor's jacket, and begging at 
one of the outlets of the town, with a wooden leg. I 



ESSAYS. 509 

knew him to be honest and industrious when in the 
country, and was curious to learn what had reduced him 
to his present situation. Wherefore, after giving him 
what I thought proper, I desired to know the history of 
his life and misfortunes, and the manner in which he was 
reduced to his present distress. The disabled soldier, for 
such he was, though di-essed in a sailor's habit, scratch- 
ing his head, and leaning on his crutch, put himself into 
an attitude to comply with my request, and gave me his 
history as follows : — 

"As for my misfortunes, master, I can't pretend to 
have gone through any more than other folks : for except 
the loss of my limb, and my being obliged to beg, I 
do n't know any reason, thank Heaven, that I have to 
complain : there is Bill Tibbs, of our regiment, he has 
lost both his legs, and an eye to boot ; but, thank Heaven, 
it is not so bad with me yet. 

"I was born in Shropshire; my father was a laborer, 
and died when I was five years old, so I was put upon 
the parish. As he had been a wandering sort of a man, 
the parishioners were not able to tell to what parish I be- 
longed, or where I was born, so they sent me to another 
j)arish, and that parish sent me to a third. I thought in 
my heart they kept sending me about so long that they 
would not let me be born in any parish at all ; but at last, 
however, they fixed me. I had some disposition to be a 
scholar, and was resolved at least to know my letters ; 
but the master of the workhouse put me to business as 
soon as I was able to handle a mallet ; and here I lived 
an easy kind of a life for five years; I only wrought ten 
hours in the day, and had my meat and drink provided 
43* 



510 ESSAYS. 

for my labor. It is true, I was not suffered to stir out of 
the house, for fear, as they said, I should run away, but 
what of that ? I had the liberty of the whole house, and 
the yard before the door, and that was enough for me. 
I was then bound out to a farmer, where I was up both 
early and late ; but I ate and drank well, and liked my 
business well enough till he died, when I was obliged 
to provide for myself; so I was resolved to go and seek 
my fortune 

"In this manner I went from town to town, worked 
when I could get employment, and starved when I could 
get none ; when happening one clay to go through a field 
belonging to a justice of the peace, I spied a hare cross- 
ing the path just before me ; and I believe the devil put 
it into my head to fling my stick at it : — well, what will 
you have on 't? I killed the hare, and was bringing it 
away in triumph, when the justice himself met me : he 
called me a poacher and a villain ; and, collaring me, de- 
sired I would give an account of myself. I fell upon 
my knees, begged his worship's pardon, and began to 
give a full account of all that I knew of my breed, seed, 
and generation ; but though I gave a very good account, 
the justice would not believe a syllable I had to say ; so 
I was indicted at sessions, found guilty of being poor, 
and sent up to London to Newgate, in order to be trans- 
ported as a vagabond. 

"People may say this and that of being in jail; but, 
for my part, I found Newgate as agreeable a place as 
ever I was in in all my life. I had my bellyful! to eat 
and drink, and did no work at all. This kind of life was 
too good to last forever ; so I was taken out of prison, 



511 



after five months, put on board a ship, and sent off with 
two hundred more, to the plantations. We had but an 
indifferent passage; for, being all confined in the hold, 
more than a hundred cf our people died for want of 
sweet air ; and those that remained were sickly enough, 
God knows. When we came ashore we were sold to 
the planters, and I was bound for seven years more. As 
I was no scholar, for I did not know my letters, I was 
obliged to work among the negroes ; and I served out 
my time, as in duty bound to do. 

" When my time was expired, I worked my passage 
home, and glad I was to see old England again, because 
I loved my country. I was afraid, however, that I should 
be indicted for a vagabond once more, so did not much 
care to go down into the country, but kept about the 
town, and did little jobs when I could get them. 
• "I was very happy in this manner for some time, til- 
one evening, coming home from work, two men knocked 
me down, and then desired me to stand. They belonged 
to a press-gang; I was carried before the justice, and aa 
1 could give no account of myself, I had my choice left, 
whether to go on board a man of war, or list for a soldier. 
I chose the latter ; and, in this post of a gentleman, I 
served two campaigns in Flanders, was at the battles of 
Val and Fontenoy, and received but one wound through 
the breast here ; but the doctor of our regiment soon 
made me well again. 

" When the peace came on I was discharged, and as I 
could not work, because my wound was sometimes trouble" 
some, I listed for a landman in the East-India company's 



512 ESSAYS. 

service. I here fought the French in six pitched battles, 
and I verily believe that, if I could read, or write, our 
captain would have made me a corporal. But it was not 
my good fortune to have, any promotion, for I soon fell 
sick, and so got leave to return home again, with forty 
pounds in my pocket. This was at the beginning of the 
present war, and I hoped to be set on shore, and to have 
the pleasure of spending my money ; but the government 
wanted men, and so I was pressed for a sailor before 
ever I could set foot on shore. 

" The boatswain found me, as he said, an obstinate fel- 
low : he swore he knew that I understood my business 
well, but that I shammed Abraham, merely to be idle ; 
but God knows I knew nothing of sea-business, and he 
beat me without considering what he was about. I had 
still, however, my forty pounds, and that was some com- 
fort to me under every beating ; and the money I might 
have had to this clay, but that our ship was taken by the 
French, and so I lost all. 

" Our crew was carried into Brest, and many of them 
died because they were not used to live in a jail; but 
for my part, it was nothing to me, for I was seasoned. 
One night as I was sleeping on the bed of boards, with a 
warm blanket about me, for I always loved to lie well, I 
was awakened by the boatswain, who had a dark lantern 
in his hand. Jack, says he to me, will you knock out the 
French sentries' brains? I don 't care, says I, striving to 
keep myself awake, if I lend a hand. Then follow me, 
says he, and I hope we shall do business. So up I got, 
and tied my blanket, which was all the clothes I had, 



ESSAYS. 513 

about my middle, and went with him to fight the French- 
man. I hate the French because they are all slaves, and 
wear wooden shoes. 

" Though we had no arms, one Englishman is able to 
beat five Frenchmen at any time ; so we went down to the 
door, where both the sentries were posted, and, rushing 
upon them, seized their arms in a moment, and knocked 
them down. From thence, nine of us ran together to the 
quay, and seizing the first boat we met, got out of the har- 
bor and put to sea. We had not been here three days 
before we were taken up by the Dorset privateer, who 
were glad of so many good hands; and we consented to 
run our chance. However, we had not so much good 
luck as we expected. In three days we fell in with the 
Pompadour privateer, of forty guns, while we had but 
twenty-three ; so to it we went, yard-arm and yard-arm. 
The fight lasted for three hours, and I verily believe we 
should have taken the Frenchman, had we but had some 
more men left behind; but unfortunately we lost all our 
men just as we were going to get the victory. 

"I was once more in the power of the French, and I 
believe it would have gone hard with ma had I been 
brought back to Brest : but, by good fortune we were re- 
taken by the Viper. I had almost forgot to tell you that 
in that engagement I was wounded in two places; I lost 
four fingers of the left hand, and my leg was shot off. If 
I had had the good fortune to have lost my leg and use 
of my hand on board a king's ship, and not aboard a pri- 
vateer, I should have been entitled to clothing and main- 
tenance during the rest of my life; but that was not my 
chance ; one man is born with a silver spoon in his mouth 



514 ESSAYS. 

and another with a wooden ladle. However, blessed 
be God! I enjoy good health, and will forever love 
liberty and Old England. Liberty, property, and Old 
England forever, — huzza ! " 

Thus saying, he limped off, leaving me in admira- 
tion at his intrepidity and content ; nor could I avoid ac- 
knowledging, that an habitual acquaintance with misery, 
serves better than philosophy to teach us to despise it. 



ON THE FKAILTY OF MAN. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY THE OHDINART OF NEWGATE. 

Man is a most frail being, incapable of directing his 
steps, unacquainted with what is to happen in his life ; 
and perhaps no man is a more manifest instance of the 
truth of this maxim, than Mr. The. Cibber, just now 
gone out of the world. Such a variety of turns of for- 
tune, yet such a persevering uniformity of conduct, ap- 
pears in all that happened in his short span, that the 
whole may be looked upon as one regular confusion ; 
every action of his life was matter of wonder and sur- 
prise, and his death was an astonishment. 

This gentleman was born of creditable parents, who 
gave him a very good education, and a great deal of 
good learning, so that he could read and write before 
he was sixteen. However, he early discovered an in- 
clination to follow lewd courses ; he refused to take the 
advice of his parents, and pursued the bent of his incli- 
nation ; he played at cards on the Sundays, called him- 
self a gentleman, fell out with his mother and laund- 
ress ; and, even in these early days, his father was fre- 



ESSAYS. 515 

quently heard to observe, that young The. — would be 
hanged. 

As he advanced in years, he grew more fond of 
pleasure ; would eat an ortolan for dinner, though he 
begged the guinea that bought it ; and was once known 
to give three pounds for a plate of green peas, which 
he had collected over-night as charity for a friend in 
distress ; he ran into debt with every body that would 
trust him, and none could build a sconce better than 
he ; so that, at last, his creditors swore with one accord 
that The. — would be hanged. 

But, as getting into debt by a man who had no visi- 
ble means but impudence for subsistence, is a thing 
that every reader is not acquainted with, I must es> 
plain that point a little, and that to his satisfaction. 

There are three ways of getting into debt ; first, by 
pushing a face ; as thus, " You, Mr. Lustring, send me 
home six yards of that paduasoy, damme ; — but hark- 
'ye, don't think I ever intend to pay you for it — 
damme." At this, the mercer laughs heartily, cuts off 
the paduasoy and sends it home ; nor is he, till too 
late, surprised to find the gentleman had said nothing 
but truth, and kept his word. 

The second method of running into debt is called 
fineering ; which is getting goods made up in such a 
fashion as to be unfit for every other purchaser ; and, 
if the tradesman refuses to give them upon credit, then 
threaten to leave them upon his hands. 

But the third and best method is called, " Being the 
good customer." The gentleman first buys some trifle, 
and pays for it in ready money ; he comes a few days 



516 ESSAYS. 

after with nothing about him but bank bills, and buys, 
we will suppose, a sixpenny tweezer-case ; the bills are 
too great to be changed, so he promises to return punc- 
tually the day after, and pay for what he has bought. 
In this promise he is punctual ; and this is repeated for 
eight or ten times, till his face is well known, and he 
has got, at last, the character of a good customer. By 
this means he gets credit for something considerable, 
and then never pays it. 

In all this the young man, who is the unhappy sub- 
ject of our present reflections, was very expert, and 
could face, fineer, and bring custom to a shop, with any 
man in England ; none of his companions could exceed 
him in this ; and his companions at last said that The. 
— would be hanged. 

As he grew old, he grew never the better ; he loved 
ortolans and green peas, as before ; he drank gravy- 
soup, when he could get it, and always thought his 
oysters tasted best when he got them for nothing, or, 
which was just the same, when he bought them upon 
tick ; thus the old man kept up the vices of the youth, 
and what he wanted in power he made up in inclina- 
tion ; so that all the world thought that old The. — 
would be hanged. 

And now, reader, I have brought him to his last 
scene ; a scene where, perhaps, my duty should have 
obliged me to assist. You expect, perhaps his dying 
words, and the tender farewell of his wife and children ; 
you expect an account of his coffin and white gloves, 
his pious ejaculations and the papers he left behind him. 
In this I cannot indulge your curiosity ; for, oh, the 
mysteries of fate ; The. was drowned. 



ESSAYS. 517 

"Reader," as Hervey saith, "pause and ponder, and 
ponder and pause ; " who knows what thy own end 
may be ? 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

There are few subjects that have been more written 
upon and less understood than that of friendship. To 
follow the dictates of some, this virtue, instead of be- 
ing the assauger of pain, becomes the source of every 
inconvenience. Such speculatists, by expecting too 
much from friendship, dissolve the connection, and by 
drawing the bands too closely, at length break them. 
Almost all our romance and novel writers are of this 
kind ; they persuade us to friendship, which we find it 
impossible to sustain to the last ; so that this sweetener 
of life, under proper regulations, is, by their means, 
rendered inaccessible or uneasy. It is certain, the best 
method to cultivate this virtue is by letting it, in some 
measure, make itself ; a similitude of minds of studies, 
and even sometime a diversity of pursuits, will produce 
all the pleasures that arise from it. The current of 
tenderness widens as it proceeds ; and two men imper- 
ceptibly find their hearts filled with good nature for 
each other, when they were at first only in pursuit of 
mirth or relaxation. 

Friendship is like a debt of honor ; the moment it is 
talked of, it loses its real name, and assumes the more 
ungrateful form of obligation. From hence we find that 
those who regularly undertake to cultivate friendship, 
find ingratitude generally repays their endeavors. That 
41 



518 



circle of beings, which dependance gathers round us, is 
almost ever unfriendly ; they secretly wish the terms of 
their connections more nearly equal ; and, where they 
even have the most virtue, are prepared to reserve all 
their affections for their patron only in the hour of his 
decline. Increasing the obligations which are laid 
upon such minds, only increases their burden ; they feel 
themselves unable to repay the immensity of their debt, 
and their bankrupt hearts are taught a latent resent- 
ment at the hand that is stretched out with offers of 
service and relief. 

Plautinus was a man who thought that every good 
was to be brought from riches ; and, as he was possessed 
of great wealth, and had a mind naturally formed for 
virtue, he resolved to gather a circle of the best men 
round him. Among the number of his dependants was 
Musidorus, with a mind just as fond of virtue, yet not 
less proud than his patron. His circumstances, how- 
ever, were such as forced him to stoop to the good offices 
of his superior, and he saw himself daily among a num- 
ber of others loaded with benefits and protestations of 
friendship. These, in the usual course of the world, 
he thought it prudent to accept ; but, while he gave his 
esteem, he could not give his heart. A want of affec- 
tion breaks out in the most trifling instances, and Plau- 
tinus had skill enough to observe the minutest actions 
of the man he wished to make his friend. In these he 
even found his aim disappointed ; Musidorus claimed an 
exchange of hearts, which Plautinus solicited by a 
variety of claims, could never think of bestowing. 

It may be easily supposed that the reserve of our 



519 



poor, proud man was soon construed into ingratitude ; 
and such indeed, in the common acceptation of the 
world, it was. Wherever Musidorus appeared, he was 
remarked as the ungrateful man ; he had accepted favors, 
it was said ; and still had the insolence to pretend to 
independence. The event, however, justified his con- 
duct. Plautinus, by misplaced liberality, at length be- 
came poor, and it was then that Musidorus first thought 
of making a friend of him. He flew to the man of 
fallen fortune, with an offer of all he had ; wrought 
under his direction with assiduity ; and, by uniting their 
talents, both were at length placed in that state of life 
from which one of them had formerly fallen. 

To this story, taken from modern life, I shall add 
one more, taken from a Greek writer of antiquity : — 
Two Jewish soldiers, in the time of Vespasian, had 
fought many campaigns together, and a participation of 
danger at length bred a union of hearts. They were 
remarked through the whole army, as the two friendly 
brothers ; they felt and fought for each other. Their 
friendship might have continued, without interruption, 
till death, had not the good fortune of the one alarmed 
the pride of the other, which was in his promotion to 
be a centurion under the famous John, who headed a 
particular part of the Jewish malcontents. 

From this moment, their former love was converted 
into the most inveterate enmity. They attached them- 
selves to opposite factions, and sought each other's lives 
in the conflict of adverse party. In this manner thev 
continued for more than two years, vowing mutual re- 
venge, and animated with an unconquerable spirit of 



520 ESSAYS. 

aversion. At length, however, that party of the Jews, 
to which the mean soldier belonged, joining with the 
Romans, it became victorious, and drove John with all 
his adherents into the temple. History has given us 
more than one picture of the dreadful conflagration of 
that superb edifice. The Roman soldiers were gathered 
round it ; the whole temple was in flames ; and thou- 
sands were seen amidst them within its sacred circuit. 
It was in this situation of things, that the now success- 
ful soldier saw his former friend, upon the battlements 
of the highest tower, looking round with horror, and 
just ready to be consumed with flames. All his former 
tenderness now returned ; he saw the man of his bosom 
just going to perish ; and unable to withstand the im- 
pulse, he ran, spreading his arms, and cried out to his 
friend to leap down from the top, and find safety with 
him. The centurion from above heard and obeyed ; 
and, casting himself from the top of the tower into his 
fellow-soldier's arms, both fell a sacrifice on the spot; 
one being crushed to death by the weight of his com- 
panion, and the other dashed to pieces by the greatness 
of his fall. 



FOLLY OF ATTEMPTING TO LEARN WISDOM IN 
RETIREMENT. 

Books, while they teach us to respect the interests of 
others, often make us unmindful of our own ; while they 
instruct the youthful reader to grasp at social happiness, 
he grows miserable in detail ; and, attentive to universal 
harmony, often forgets that he himself has a part to sus- 



ESSAYS. 521 

tain iD the concert. I dislike, therefore, the philosopher 
who describes the inconveniences of life in such pleasing 
colors, that the pupil grows enamored of distress, longs to 
try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread, nor 
fears its inconveniences till he severely feels them. 

A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new 
to the world, and unacquainted with man but by philo- 
sophic information, may be considered as a being whose 
mind is filled with the vulgar errors of the wise ; utterly 
unqualified for a journey through life, yet confident of 
his own skill in the direction, he sets out with confidence, 
blunders on with vanity, and finds himself at last un- 
done. 

He first has learned from books, and then lays it down 
as a maxim, that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in 
excess : and be has been long taught to detest vice and 
love virtue. Warm, therefore, in attachments, and stead- 
fast in enmity, he treats every creature as a friend or foe ; 
expects from those he loves unerring integrity ; and con- 
signs his enemies to the reproach of wanting every virtue. 
On this principle he proceeds; and here begin his disap- 
pointments : upon a closer inspection of human nature, 
he perceives that he should have moderated his friend- 
ship and softened his severity ; for he often finds the ex- 
cellences of one part of mankind clouded with vice, and 
the faults of the other brightened with virtue; he finds 
no character so sanctified that has not its failings, none 
so infamous but has somewhat to attract our esteem; he 
beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters. 

He now, therefere, but too late, perceives that his re- 
gards should have been more cool, and his hatred less vio- 
44* 



522 ESSAYS. 

lent ; that the truly wise seldom court romantic friend- 
ship with the good, and avoid, if possible, the resent- 
ment even of the wicked ; every moment gives him fresh 
instances that the bonds of f rendship are broken if drawn 
too closely ; and that those whom he has treated with 
disrespect, more than retaliate the injury ; at length, 
therefore, he is obliged to confess, that he has declared 
war upon the vicious half of mankind, without being 
able to form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse 
his quarrel. 

Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far 
advanced to recede ; and though poverty be the just 
consequence of the many enemies his conduct has 
created, yet he is resolved to meet it without shrinking ; 
philosophers have described poverty in most charming 
colors ; and even his vanity is touched in thinking he 
shall show the world in himself one more example 
of patience, fortitude, and resignation ; " Come then, O 
Poverty ! for what is there in thee dreadful to the wise ? 
Temperance, health, and frugality walk in thy train ; 
cheerfulness and liberty are ever thy companions. Shall 
any be ashamed of thee of whom Cincinnatus was not 
ashamed ? The running brook, the herbs of the field, 
can amply satisfy nature ; man wants but little, nor that 
little long. Come, then, O Poverty ! while kings stand 
by, and gaze with admiration at the true philosopher's 
resignation." 

The goddess appears ; for Poverty ever comes at the 
call ; but, alas ! he finds her by no means the charming 
figure books and his own imagination had painted. As 
when an eastern bride, whom her friends and relations 
had long described as a model of perfection, pays her first 



523 



visit, the longing bridegroom lifts the veil to see a face he 
had never seen bofore ; but instead of a countenance 
blazing ■with beauty like the sun, he beholds a deformity 
shooting icicles to his heart; such appears Poverty to 
her new entertainer; all the fabric of enthusiasm is at 
once demolished, and a thousand miseries rise upon its 
ruins; while Contempt, with pointing finger, is foi'emost 
in the hideous procession. 

The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to 
look at him while he is eating : he finds that in proportion 
as he grows poor, the world turns its back upon him, and 
gives him leave to act the philosopher in all the majesty 
of solitude. It might be agreeable enough to play the 
philosopher, while we are conscious that mankind are 
spectators ; but what signifies wearing the mask of sturdy 
contentment, and mounting the stage of restraint, when 
not one creature will assist at the exhibition? Thus is 
he forsaken of men, while his fortitude wants the satis- 
faction even of self-applause ; for either he does not feel 
his present calamities, and that is natural insensibility; 
or he disguises his feelings, and that is dissimulation. 

Spleen now begins to take up the man; not dis- 
tinguishing in his resentment, he regards all mankind 
with detestation : and commencing man-hater, seeks soli- 
tude to be at liberty to rail. 

It has been said, that he who retires to solitude is 
either a beast or an angel ; the censure is too severe, and 
the praise unmerited ; the discontented being who retires 
from society is generally some good-natured man whe 
has begun life without experience, and knew not how to 
gain it in his intercourse with mankind. 



524 ESSAYS. 

LETTER, 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCTL-MAN AT THE 
TIME OF THE CORONATION. 

Sir — I have the honor of being a common-council/ 
man, and am greatly pleased with a paragraph from 
Southampton in yours of yesterday. There we learn 
that the mayor and aldermen of that loyal borough had 
the particular satisfaction of celebrating the royal nup- 
tials by a magnificent turtle-feast. By this means the 
gentlemen had the pleasure of filling then- bellies, and 
showing their loyalty together. I must confess it would 
give me pleasure to see some such method of testifying 
our loyalty practised in this metropolis of which I am an 
unworthy member. Instead of presenting his majesty 
(God bless him) on every occasion with our formal ad- 
dresses, we might thus sit comfortably down to dinner, 
and wish him prosperity in a sirloin of beef; upon oui 
army levelling the walls of a town, or besieging a fortifi- 
cation, we might at our city-least imitate our brave troops 
and demolish the walls of a venison-pasty, or besiege the 
shell of a turtle, with as great a certainty of success. 

As present, however, we have got into a sort of dry, 
unsocial manner of drawing up addresses upon every oc- 
casion . and though I have attended upon sis cavalcades 
and two foot-processions in a single year, yet I came 
away as lean and hungry as if I had been a juryman at 
the Old Bailey. For my part, Mr. Printer, I do n't see 
what is got by these processions and addresses except an 
appetite ; and that, thank Heaven, we all have in a pretty 
good degree, without ever leaving our own houses for it. 
It is true, our gowns of mazarine blue, edged with fur, cut 



ESSAYS. 525 

a pretty figure enough, parading it through the streets, 
and so ruy wife tells me. In fact, I generally bow to 
all my acquaintances, when thus in full dress ; but, alas ! 
as the proverb has it, fine clothes never fill the belly. 

But even though all this bustling, parading, and 
powdering, through the streets, be agreeable enough to 
many of us ; yet, I would have my brethren consider 
whether the frequent repitition of it be so agreeable to 
our betters above. To be introduced to court, to see 
the queen, to kiss hands, to smile upon lords, to ogle 
the ladies, and all the other fine things there, may, I 
grant, be a perfect show to us that view it but seldom; 
but it may be a troublesome business enough to those 
who are to settle such ceremonies as these every day. 
To use an instance adapted to all our apprehensions ; 
suppose my family and I should go to Bartholomew 
fair. Very well, going to Bartholomew fair, the whole 
sight is perfect rapture to us, who are only spectators 
once and away ; but I am of opinion, that the wire- 
walker and fire-eater find no such great sport in all this ; 
I am of opinion they had as lief remain behind the cur- 
tain, at their own pastimes, drinking beer, eating 
shrimps, and smoking tobacco. 

Besides, what can we tell his majesty in all we say 
on these occasions, but what he knows perfectly well 
already ? I believe, if I were to reckon up, I could not 
find above five hundred disaffected in the whole kingdom ; 
and here we are every day telling his majesty how loyal 
we are. Suppose the addresses of a people, for in- 
stance, should run thus : — 

" May it please your m j, we are many of us 

worth a hur.dred thousand pounds, and are possessed of 



526 ESSAYS. 

several other inestimable advantages. For the preser- 
vation of this money and those advantages we are chiefly 

indebted to your m y. We are, therefore, once 

more assembled, to assure your m y of our fidelity. 

This, it is true, we have lately assured your m y 

five or six times ; but we are willing once more to re- 
peat what can't be doubted, and to kiss your royal hand, 
and the queen's hand, and thus sincerely to convince 
you, that we never shall do any thing to deprive you of 
one loyal subject, or any one of ourselves of one hund- 
red thousand pounds." Should we not, upon reading 
such an address, think that people a little silly, who 
thus made such unmeaning professions ? Excuse me, 
Mr. Printer ; no man upon earth hath a more profound 
respect for the abilities of the aldermen and common- 
council than I ; but I could wish they would not take 
up a monarch's time in these good-natured trifles, who, 
I am told, seldom spends a moment in vain. 

The example set by the city of London will probably 
be followed by every other community in the British 
empire. Thus we shall have a new set of addresses 
from every little borough with but four freemen and a 
burgess ; day after day shall we see them come up with 
hearts filled with gratitude, " laying the vows of a loyal 
people at the foot of the throne." Death ! Mr. Printer, 
they will hardly leave our courtiers time to scheme a 
single project for beating the French ; and our enemies 
may gain upon us, while we are thus employed in telling 
our governor how much we intend to keep them under. 

But a people by too frequent use of addresses may 
by this means come at last to defeat the very purpose 



ESSAYS. o2i 

for which they are designed. If we are thus exclaim- 
ing in raptures upon every occasion, we deprive our- 
selves of the powers of flattery, when there may be a 
real necessity. A boy three weeks ago swimming across 
the Thames, was every minute crying out, for his amuse- 
ment, " I 've got the cramp, I 've got the cramp ; " the 
boatmen pushed off once or twice, and they found it 
was fun ; he soon after cried out in earnest, but nobody 
believed him, and he sunk to the bottom. 

In short, sir, I am quite displeased with any unneces- 
sary cavalcade whatever. I hope we shall soon have 
occasion to triumph, and then I shall be ready myself, 
either to eat at a turtle-feast or to shout at a bonfire ; 
and will either lend my faggot at the fire, or flourish 
my hat at every loyal health that may be proposed. 

I am, sir, etc. 



A SECOND LETTER. 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A COMMON-COUNCIL-JIAN, DESCRIB- 
ING THE CORONATION. 

Sir, — I am the same common-council-man who 
troubled you some days ago. To whom can I complain 
but to you ? for you have mauy a dismal correspondent ; 
in this time of joy my wife does not choose to hear me, 
because, she says, I 'm always melancholy when she 's 
in spirits. I have been to see the coronation, and a 
fine sight it was, as I am told, to those who had the 
pleasure of being near spectators. The diamonds, I am 
told, were as thick as Bristol stones in a show glass ; 
the ladies and gentlemen walked along, one foot before 
another, and threw their eyes about them, on this side 



528 ESSAYS. 

and that, perfectly like clock-work. O ! Mr. Printer, 
it had been a fine sight indeed, if there was but a little 
more eating. 

Instead of that, there we sat, penned up in our 
scaffolding, like sheep upon a market-day in Smithfield ; 
but the devil a thing I could get to eat (God pardon 
me for swearing) except the fragments of a plum-cake, 
that was all squeezed into crumbs in my wife's pocket, 
as she came through the crowd. You must know, sir, 
that in order to do the thing genteelly, and that all my 
family might be amused at the same time, my wife, my 
daughter, and I, took two-guinea places for the corona- 
tion, and I gave my two eldest boys (who, by the by, 
are twins, fine children) eighteen-pence a-piece to go to 
Sudrick fair, to see the court of the black King of 
Morocco,which will serve to please children well enough. 

That we might have good places on the scaffolding, 
my wife insisted upon going at seven o'clock in the even- 
ing before the coronation, for she said she would not 
lose a full prospect for the world. This resolution, I 
own, shocked me. " Grizzle," said I to her, " Grizzle, 
mv dear, consider that you are but weakly, always 
ailing, and will never bear sitting all night upon the 
scaffolding. You remember what a cold you got the 
last fast-day by rising but half an hour before your 
time to go to church, and how I was scolded as the 
cause of it. Besides, my dear, our daughter Anna 
Amelia Whilhelmina Carolina will look like a perfect 
fright if she sits up ; and you know the girl's face is 
something at her time of life, considering her fortune 
is but small." " Mr. G-rogan," replied my wife, " Mr. 
Grogan, this is always the case, when you find me 



ESSAYS. 529 

in spirits; I do n't want to go, not I, nor I do n't care 
whether I go at all ; it is seldom that I am in spirits, but 
this is always the case."' In short, Mr. Printer, what will 
you have on 't ? to the coronation we went. 

What difficulties we had in getting a coach; how we 
were shoved about in the mob ; how I had my pocket 
picked of the last new almanac, and my steel tobacco- 
box; how my daughter lost half an eye-brow, and her 
laced shoe in a gutter ; my wife's lamentation upon this, 
with the adventures of a crumbled plum-cake; relate all 
these ; we suffered this and ten times more before we got 
to our places. 

At last, however, we were seated. My wife is certain- 
ly a heart of oak ; I thought sitting up in the damp night- 
air would have killed her ; I have known her for two 
months take possession of our easy chair, mobbed up in 
flannel night-caps, and trembling at a breath of air ; but 
she now bore the night as merrily as if she had sat up at 
a christening. My daughter and she did not seem to 
value it a farthing. She told me two or three stories 
that she knows will always make me laugh, and my 
daughter sung me " the noon-tide air," towards one o'clock 
in the morning. However, with all their endeavors, I 
was as cold and as dismal as ever I remember. If this 
be the pleasures of a coronation, cried I to myself, I had 
rather see the court of King Solomon in all his glory, at 
my ease in Bartholomew fair. 

Towards morning, sleep began to come fast upon me ; 

and the sun rising and warming the air, still inclined me 

to rest a little. You must know, sir, that I am naturally 

of a sleepy constitution ; I have often sat up at a table 

4-5 



530 ESSAYS. 

with my eyes open, and have been asleep all the while. 
What will you have on 't? just about eight o'clock in 
the morning I fell asleep. I fell into the most pleas- 
ing dream in the world. I shall never forget it ; I 
dreamed that I was at my lord-mayor's feast, and had 
scaled the crust of a venison-pasty ; I kept eating and 
eating, in my sleep, and thought I could never have 
enough. After some time, the pasty, methought, was 
taken away, and the dessert was brought in its room. 
Thought I to myself, if I have not got enough of veni- 
son, I am resolved to make it up by the largest snap at 
the sweet-meats. Accordingly I grasped a whole pyra- 
mid ; the rest of the guests seeing me with so much, one 
gave me a snap, the other gave me a snap ; I was pulled 
this way by my neighbor on my right hand, and that 
way by my neighbor on the left, but still kept my 
ground without flinching, and continued eating and 
230cketing as fast as I could. I never was so pulled 
and handled in my whole life. At length, however, 
going to smell to a lobster that lay before me, me- 
thought it caught me with its claws fast by the nose. 
The pain I felt upon this occasion is inexpressible ; in 
fact, it broke my dream ; when awaking I found my 
wife and daughter applying a smelling-bottle to my nose> 
and telling me it was time to go home ; they assured 
me every means had been tried to awake me, while the 
procession was going forward, but that I still continued 
to sleep till the whole ceremony was over. Mr. Printer, 
this is a hard case, and as I read your most ingenious 
work, it will be some comfort, when I see this inserted, 

to find that 1 write for it too. 

I am, sir, Your distressed humble servant, 

L. Grogan. 



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